Peregrin: a novel
by Shanghaijim
Summary: The epic saga of an incorrigibly curious hobbit lost in Far Harad.
1. Thain's Heir

_Part I_

**Thain's Heir**

* * *

Pippin woke. For a moment he lay in his bed, blinking, as the world resolved into the order of his bedroom in Great Smials. Dark. He glanced at the windows and knew it was far from morning.

He was groggy and confused. He began to reach for his wife, but Diamond lay on her side, turned away from him.

Pippin propped himself up on his elbow and looked at her for a long while, the curve of her hip, the slimness of her shoulder, the tension that never left her neck where it met her collarbone. Her hair, almost straight, almost white. So rare among hobbits, Elven hair. How beautiful she was, how rare, how precious. Like a jewel forever out of reach.

He slipped out of bed and stood. The cool air of early spring stung his bare skin. He donned a robe, picked up his pipe from the bedtable, and slipped out of their bedroom.

He made his way down the halls and passages of the Smials. Sometimes he still got lost in his own home. Pippin was born in the farmhouse at Whitwell. He'd visited the Smials only on family occasions. Then his father became Thain and they moved in.

He did know how to find the pantry, or the nearest one to his room at least. He made himself a couple of butter sandwiches, decided on tea instead of ale, and went to the nearest parlor.

This was one of his favorite spots, where Diamond seldom ventured and which therefore was always a slight mess. Pippin liked it that way. It had a thick carpet, a sagging old chair, a few old books from the library, and solitude. He stoked the banked embers in the firebox into life and sat there for a long time, toasting his butter sandwiches and sipping his tea.

Halfway into his snack he heard footsteps in the hall. He waited as the door opened and a fellow sleepless wanderer peered inside for an unplanned but completely unquestioned meeting.

"Good evening," he said to his cousin Merry.

"Good evening." Merry ambled into the room, also in his robe, wearing a nightshirt. "Bad dream?"

"Why else? What about you? Bad bed?"

"The bed was fine. I just couldn't sleep anymore."

"Cup of tea?"

"That would be lovely."

Pippin fetched a cup for Merry and the pot of tea from the pantry. He placed the kettle by the fire to keep warm. Merry had sunk down onto the carpet, his feet to the fire.

"I've missed you," Merry said, taking his tea.

"You should visit more often," Pippin responded.

"I try. Often you're away."

Pippin snorted. "Father keeps me busy."

"That busy?"

"Of course. I don't know how you do it, cousin. Between the wheat, hay, orchards, and livestock … and the incessant politics …" Pippin shook his head. "Half the time I muster the sheep and shear the Bounders."

"You would muster sheep. Don't worry, my dear. It gets easier."

"For me? I doubt it. You've always had a head for running things. What do I know but jests, songs, and warfare? I'm obsolete before I'm old." Pippin checked his tone. "My, I sound horridly bitter."

"Not too much," Merry teased. "A bit. What have you to be bitter about?"

"Nothing, I suppose."

"Your father?"

"That's never going to change. I'm used to it."

"Sisters?"

"Same."

"Diamond?"

Pippin shrugged.

Merry turned to him. "Surely it can't have gotten so bad."

"It was no good to begin with."

"Pip," scolded Merry. "Don't be ungallant. You're a knight, after all."

"That's not funny."

"I'm not trying to be."

Pippin exhaled.

"It was arranged," consoled his cousin.

"So was yours!" he replied. "But you love Estella. You always did. And Stella loves you, completely."

A sad smile played on Merry's lips. "Yes," he said. "I do love her. And I don't know why, but the poor girl's convinced herself I deserve her." He reached for the sandwich Pippin held and tore off a chunk to munch.

Pippin watched him. "How is she? I haven't had a good conversation with her yet, since …" Since her last miscarriage.

Now it was Merry's turn to shrug. "She's beautiful. She's wonderful. It's not her fault, you know. Bolgers have always been fruitful." He stared into the fire, munching a bite of food with a few crumbs lingering on his set and dimpled chin.

Pippin couldn't stand it. "Now who's sounding horridly bitter," he teased, hoping to lift the moment.

"Cheeky," Merry said. Then he went on, "You have a child, Pip. That's something I can only dream about. Isn't that something worth building on?" He went and ran his fingers through Pippin's curls, recently trimmed. "Looks so strange," he muttered. "You look like a molted bird."

"I decided to cut it short," Pippin replied. "For a change." He managed a grin. "It's very refreshing," he said, "and, you know, everyone else always wears them bushy, or long. Too long. Elves, you know, you can't tell them apart sometimes."

Merry scratched at the high dome of Pippin's forehead, through the stiff, spiky tufts of ruddy gold. "But it makes you look old, Pip."

"Good. I feel old."

"You're forty-one." Merry pulled his hand away. "That's not old. _I'm_ the one entering into broad middle age."

"Well, you are quite fat," Pippin said. "You might get bigger than Sam."

"Attacking my vanity indeed. I can only imagine how disrespectful you shall be once you become Thain."

"Oh, don't." Pippin turned away. "Don't call me that. I hate that. Titles and ceremonies. You don't know how much I'm starting to despise all of it." He hugged his knees, evading Merry's eyes. "Sometimes I want to go back," he wished, "back, just a little way, you know, into a past that slipped by me too fast. To be just Pippin again. Silly little Pippin. Your Pip. And you, just Merry, my Merry."

"Fool of a Took. I'll always be your Merry."

Pippin looked at his cousin, and his heart bent.

"Of course, Estella might have an objection or two," Merry added.

When they were young, Peregrin Took may have launched himself upon his cousin Meriadoc for the jibe and the insinuation. But neither he nor his cousin were young any longer.

Pippin considered this, and then decided to launch himself upon Merry anyway, for old times' sake.

* * *

2.

* * *

How Merry loved Estella. Pippin had realized it later than he should.

Merry had always been great friends with Fredegar Bolger; they, and Folco Boffin, had composed the tight-knit circle of friends centered on Frodo Baggins. Pippin, much younger, couldn't wait to become part of their group. It helped that Frodo adored him; and as for Merry, Pippin had considered him a brother from his earliest vaguest memories.

As the years drifted by, the sons of Shire gentry settled down. Folco became a solicitor. Frodo inherited Bag End and the Ring. Fatty stayed fat. Merry remained close to them all, but Pippin became his most certain company. But whenever Brandy Hall became too much, when Merry wished to escape his parents, when Frodo and Bag End were too far away, in space or vision—then Merry went to the Bolgers' house in Budgeford, beneath their grove of oak trees, with pipeweed in one pocket and Pippin in the other, to see Estella.

Estella had always been pretty, with a crown of dark, shining curls and rosy cheeks on a fair, joyful face, and now as a grown hobbit and husband Pippin understood the moments he had espied as a thoughtless tweenager between Merry and Estella among the falling oak leaves in years of autumn evenings in Buckland. They had loved each other, he understood now; loved each other, perhaps even pledged their hearts to each other, through many days of their young lives. When Merry left with Frodo on what would become the Quest for Mount Doom, Estella waited for him, as faithfully as Rosie Cotton had waited for Sam Gamgee. After the battle of Bywater, Merry had taken the newly-freed Fredegar home, and Pippin accompanied him to the Bolger house. Estella had met them at the door. A little bit thinner, a little paler, but with brown eyes sparkling still, she cast herself upon Merry like a lost and weary traveler who finally recalled the face of home.

Old Will Whitfoot presided over their wedding that fall, in the same grove of oaks where their friendship had turned to love, and there was hardly a hobbit in Budgeford or Bucklebury who wasn't invited. Merry's mother Esmeralda represented Brandy Hall. Pippin knew Saradoc was unable to attend, and why, and anger and resentment flared in him against his uncle, even though he knew that his uncle's vices were by now compulsions he couldn't master. Pippin could forgive his uncle his weakness, but he found it hard to forgive any cause of Merry's grief.

Merry had stood tall and grand, magnificent in the gilded leather and mail and field-green cloak of Rohan. Estella shone in her dress of ivory satin, a Bolger heirloom, with asters woven in her hair. They pledged their love to each other through the days of the sun and the nights of the moon and the nights of stars alone, through springtimes, summers, and winters; through autumns and harvests for as long as they breathed. When Merry kissed his wife, no one failed to be moved, and the immature, adolescent jealousy still in Pippin's heart melted away at the sight of his cousin's joy. Then Merry had taken Estella into his arms, and laughing and singing the pair went to the great white pony that had come from Eomer King. Merry lifted Estella onto the pony, and himself behind her, and they galloped off down the lane and through the woods and fields of Buckland.

"So when are we marrying you off, Mr. Pippin?" Sam had asked him at the reception.

Pippin had laughed. Marry? Was there any hurry? Pippin hoped not. He had grown handsome at last, and he enjoyed sowing his oats. Marry, indeed! It wasn't as if he had a one true love, like Merry, or Sam.

"Peregrin? Peregrin, dear." It was his mother, with his aunt Esmeralda, and with them, a young lady he did not know.

"Peregrin," said Esmeralda firmly, grasping his hand and pulling him to her, despite his towering over her. "I want you to meet a cousin of yours. This is Diamond, cousin Sigismond's daughter from Long Cleeve."

She was wearing a light blue cotton dress, and a pale blue ribbon in her hair. She was as slender as Frodo, and her skin was as pale as frost. Her hair was so fair, and fell to the small of her back. Her expression was downcast as she approached him, but when she looked up Pippin realized what Merry had meant when he described the lady Eowyn of Rohan. "Pale and cold and beautiful." So was Diamond of Long Cleeve. Her eyes glittered with hard tears. Around her neck, upon a Dwarven chain, was a single jewel of her name.

She curtsied. "Milord," she said, with a voice like a snowfly.

_To me?_ Pippin didn't know what to think. His father was "his lordship," his mother "her ladyship"; Aunt Esmeralda got by on "Mistress". Was she trying to compliment him? She couldn't be. She held her backbone so straight Pippin had an absurd image of her shattering.

It moved him. "Milady," he responded, bowing gravely and deeply, as a knight of Gondor should.

She said nothing. Briefly she glared at him, and Pippin saw unbreakable pride in her, and realized she felt humiliated among the resplendent company. His pity grew. He asked her politely to dance. She accepted, and stumbled her way through the dances that he had assumed everyone knew. He held her gingerly, fearing she might break. She never once looked up at him.

* * *

Now Pippin knew why Diamond Took had been so cold, so bitter, so hopeless. Raised to remember she was a Took, a descendant of the Bullroarer, she had to grow up in a small village cut off from the rest of the Shire, in genteel poverty. Her pride and breeding were all she had, and she learned to feed on it like ice.

Oh, she was beautiful in her own way; and on their wedding night, she had allowed him to attempt to kindle some fire in her; but there was little to be done. She pulled away from his attempts at passion after Faramir was born. Sometimes, when he would wake in the night in a cold sweat, fleeing from a dream of war, his wife would simply turn over and leave him to his own devices.

"Peregrin," she told him once (she never, never called him Pippin), "please don't think I require you to honor me in the privacy of our bedchamber at the expense of your own pleasure. We have done our duty to our family and our country with Faramir."

"But I only wish to make you happy!"

"Thank you. But I'm tired."

"But, Di …"

"Peregrin, let's not pretend our union is more than what it is."

"And what, pray tell, is that?" Pippin asked her, his temper flaring. Then just as his anger faded, leaving him sorrowful. "Have I not been good to you, my dear?"

"Only because they expect you to," Diamond replied. "You hate it."

That night, Pippin left Great Smials, riding recklessly, black as a wraith upon his silver pony, through the dark and sleeping Shire, down the Southfarthing to an inn by the borders where Merry and Folco had reported the company was hospitable.

Pippin wondered yet again at the irony of this world, that Merry and Estella who loved each other would be the childless ones.

Sometimes, when he couldn't sleep, when the Black Gate weighed on his dreams, he'd make his way to the gardens of the Smials, and gaze into the west, seeking for Eärendil. The light of the only known remaining Silmaril shone in his eyes. Then he'd think of Frodo, with a steadfast and abiding envy.

* * *

3.

* * *

A month after Merry and Estella returned to Buckland, Pippin made a decision. He went to Hobbiton to see if Sam Gamgee could talk him out of it.

He stabled his pony at the village mews and proceeded up the Hill on foot. It was a busy morning, for spring was come in its full glory to the Shire. Pippin admired the budding trees and the freshly-sown fields leading up to the Row. Hobbits saw him and tipped their hats or nodded; some of the ladies curtsied. Pippin smiled back. Had all the faults and foibles of youth been forgiven as they beheld him? He loathed to disappoint them.

He turned the path and paused for a moment, letting the sight break his heart as it nowadays always did. How many times as a lad had he strolled up this road, or more likely ran pell-mell, up to the gate and the grand hole at the summit of the Hill, to see Bilbo or Frodo? Pippin felt a wave of, of all things, homesickness. He shook his head sharply, as if it were a pest he could dissuade. He didn't like that feeling; he never had. He resolved to be sunny and amiable with the Gamgees.

"Uncle Pippin!" was the greeting given him by Elanor, minding her younger siblings in the flower garden. "Mummy! Dad! Uncle Pippin's here!"

"Mr. Peregrin!" said Mistress Rose, poking her head out of the kitchen window. "You should have let us know you were coming for a visit! I would have had time to prepare something for you!" The bright-cheeked young matron appeared in full in the doorway, an infant in one arm and a pitcher of milk in the other. "How long are you staying? Where's your pony? Is my Samwise expecting you? He should have told me if he was."

Pippin finally got a word in. "Rosie," he said, "I'm not here for a visit. I need to talk to Sam. Please, where is he?"

Rose's smile faded a little, although it refused to die completely. "He should be out back. I'm sure …" She looked over her shoulder, and sure enough, there came her husband, being led by a determined Elanor.

Sam Gamgee's hands were brown from working with the soil, and he wiped them on the cloth produced by his wife. But his calm, steadfast gaze never left his friend's, and Pippin felt that Sam already perceived much of what was in his mind and heart.

"Rosie, dearest," said the Mayor, "could you bring out a bit of tea for us? Mr. Peregrin has something on his mind."

* * *

They sat among the roots of the great tree on the hill, gazing out over Hobbiton and Bywater and the green, growing Shire. They said nothing for a while, just gazing out over their little corner of the world.

"Do you like it?"

Pippin was startled by Sam's question. "Like what?"

Sam took out his pipe and with its stem gestured at all that surrounded them.

"Oh," said Pippin. "Of course I do. It's all I ever wanted."

Sam puffed on his pipe and watched him.

Pippin sagged. "No, you're right," he said. "That's a lie. It's always been a lie. In Minas Tirith, after the Battle of the Pelennor, I told Merry that we Tooks and Brandybucks weren't meant to live on the heights. I was lying even then. Even as I said it, I wanted to try those heights again. I wanted to see the deep places, the high places."

"You wanted to travel."

"I wanted to see … _everything_." Pippin looked away, at the stones among the grasses at the roots of the great tree. "I missed the trees and flowers and fields of the Shire in Minas Tirith, but once I got out of the city … I went with Faramir and Eowyn to Ithilien, do you remember?"

"I remember. You came back smelling of wildflowers."

"I _rolled_ in them! I asked Faramir everything about them, and about Ithilien, its history, its people. About Minas Ithil and Minas Anor and Osgiliath, and the roads that led to them; roads that still stretch farther than I ever dreamed the world could go." Warmth coursed through his heart. "I want to follow those roads, Sam. To see things no hobbit has ever seen. Do things no hobbit has ever done."

"You've done things like that."

Pippin kicked turf loose. "The war doesn't count." Then, abashed, he picked up the clod and patted it back into place.

Sam's son appeared with a basket. "Mum said you'd be wanting some cakes and buns with your tea," he said to his father. Pippin was staring at him, and he stared back, making Pippin wince.

"Hello," Pippin said.

"Hello," the lad replied. He was a stout, healthy child with wavy, sandy hair like his father's. But his eyes were blue as forget-me-nots. "I'm Frodo."

Pippin smiled. "I know. I saw you when you were a baby."

Frodo smiled back. "I'm named after Dad's friend." Then, interested in something else, he scampered off.

Pippin turned to Sam. Sam only shrugged.

Rose had prepared some seedcake and sweet buns stuffed with cheese. Pippin sank his teeth into one, and remembered the taste of his childhood.

"I wonder," he said, afterward, "if there are, far in the east or south, hobbits who don't have teatime."

"There might not be any hobbits at all."

Pippin was far from horrified. "I wonder," he said again. Then, realizing something, he asked, "You've not spoken with Merry about me, have you?"

"Now Mr. Pippin," said Sam, "we're just a bit concerned, is all. You've become awful grave in your majority years. We miss our old sunny Pip, we do."

"Well, I miss him too. That's why I …" He hesitated for a moment, suspecting that his intentions, his plans, once spoken in the light of day over tea and cake, would seem like a particularly Tookish madness; then he spoke them anyway. "I'm going away, Sam. I want to leave the Shire and travel. I want to see that world of which Minas Tirith and Edoras are only a taste. I want to … to discover the names of all the stars and all the living things, and the whole history of Middle-earth and Over-heaven and of the Sundering Seas." _I miss you, Gandalf._

Sam listened. "That's a tall order," he said.

"Too tall for a hobbit?" joked Pippin. "Perhaps so. Still, I'm taller than most."

"Your dad won't be happy."

"That is nothing new."

"What about Diamond?"

Pippin said nothing.

"Your son?"

Pippin laughed. "It will be better for him, I think …"

"To live a few months, or years, without you?"

"To live without seeing how much his mother despises me." His expression was ugly, and he knew it.

Sam said nothing.

"I'm not asking for your permission, Mayor Gamgee."

"No, you're not, Mr. Took," Sam replied in the same tone. "And I couldn't stop you if I tried."

Pippin realized that Sam was remembering Frodo. But the Mayor only took a sip of tea, steadfastly gazing west.

* * *

4.

* * *

His will indeed was set. Pippin made his arrangements as quickly and discreetly as he could. Within a week he had his affairs squared away, numerous courses charted, and packed the notebook in which he had been diligently recording every scrap of information he could find from the Smials' library-records of the kingdoms-in-exile and of lost Númenor. It was not only Merry who had learned to be a scholar.

He was packing when he felt a presence in the doorway. It was his wife.

Diamond gazed at him, still with that same expression that seemed to see him and find him exhausting in the same breath. He had endured that look too long. He preferred her resentment and her pride to this wintry absence of fellowship.

Now she spoke to him. "Your father is beside himself."

Pippin continued his chore. "He'll get over it."

"The whole town is gossiping."

"Really. About what, I wonder."

"They say you're running from scandal."

"Wonderful," Pippin exclaimed. "That means you can go to a solicitor and claim a divorce. I won't contest you. In fact, let me direct you to Folco Boffin, he's an excellent lawyer, does all our titles. He wrote our matrimonial paper, surely he can tear it up."

"Where shall I say my husband has gone?"

How cold she could sound sometimes. Pippin realized he was not a hobbit with limitless pity. He was not Frodo.

"Tell them whatever you wish," he told his wife. "As long as you remember me to my son."

He was startled to feel her hand upon his arm. He let her steer him around to face her.

"If you want him to know you," she told him without guile or heat, "come back to us after you're done."

He looked down at her hand, so pale and delicate, resting on the White Tree upon his surcoat. He gazed into her face, hoping to see a reason to stay. But he could read nothing in her eyes, nothing like what would have kept him there. He turned away, removing her hand from his breast, and she let him go.

"Be kind to my mother," he said. "Don't let my sisters bully you."

"I don't intend to."

Pippin nodded. "Di," he started to say. "I'm sorry."

"Oh Peregrin. No you're not."

It stung him. "I would have …" he began, but she was a stranger, and no explanation could be enough.

* * *

So Peregrin son of Paladin II, Knight of Gondor and Guard of the Citadel, forty-one years young, left the Great Smials of Tuckborough, riding South. He had a great many plans as to where he was going, but in his heart had not an idea if he would ever return.

He rode without pause, leaving the villages and farms of the Tookland behind, the Green Hills guarding his back like fading mountains in a lost fairy land. Through scented fields of sprouted sunflowers and newly planted pipeweed in acres upon acres he rode. He was making for the edge of the Shire at Sarn Ford; but at the Ford, he was brought up short by a figure barring his way, robed in green.

"Merry!" Pippin said, dismounting and coming up to his cousin. "What are you doing here? What's wrong?"

Merry glared at him. "I can't let you leave like this, Pip," he said.

Pippin groaned. "Why not? I explained everything to you already. I thought you understood! You, of all people …"

He stopped himself as a pair of hobbits behind Merry led a magnificent filly onto the road. Her coat and mane from muzzle to ear-tip and from withers to the last strand of her tossing tail, was a silvery, shimmering black. She was saddled and bridled with gear of black leather affixed with gleaming silver metalwork. A double stirrup explained how a hobbit could mount.

"You can't dare all those endless roads Sam mentioned on just a silver pony," said Merry with a grin.

"Merry," said Pippin, approaching the horse. "This is one of yours, isn't it?"

"I named her Swallow," said Merry, stroking the animal's neck and side. Pippin could see the shine in his cousin's eyes. "I raised her from a foal as a steed for you. Black and silver—I know how fond you are of your Guard livery."

Pippin was speechless. Merry handed him Swallow's reins. "She is yours, cousin. We're the only hobbits tall enough to ride a steed like her, and I have duties here." He stepped away, and tears glistened on his eyelashes. "She's a good horse, and I hope she'll prove capable on the journey ahead of you. She runs hard for long distances for the joy of it. She'll get you to Gondor at least, and in less than a month."

Pippin, overcome, seized his dearest friend in his arms, and hugged him for as long as he could. "Take care, old boy."

"I always do," Merry replied.

Merry's servants transferred Pippin's small pack from the pony to Swallow. Pippin climbed up the double stirrup with little difficulty. The world seemed larger from upon her back.

Merry looked smaller. Pippin reached down and took his cousin's hand in his. Memories leapt unbidden of another parting, ten years and more in the past, in what seemed to him was another lifetime, another Age of this world.

"Won't you come with me?" asked Pippin, not knowing himself if he jested.

Merry grinned. "This is your adventure, Pippin. You don't need me anymore." He paused. "You do have an idea where you're going, I hope?"

Pippin did. He closed his eyes, as if to say the word were to give in to all his dreams in one moment.

"South," he said to his cousin. "I'm going south, Merry."

Merry's eyes widened. "Harad?" he said.

Pippin shook his head. "_Far_ Harad. Deserts, and jungles, and oliphaunts, and heavens know what else."

Fear, admixed with a happy envy, came to Merry's face. Pippin waited for his cousin to say something more, but no admonishment, or plea, came.

Only one request did Merry make. "Just come back again, all right?"

Pippin, uncertain, nodded. He didn't know if he would, but for Merry, he'd try.

He leaned to Swallow's ear and whispered, "Let's fly," and gave a small kick.

Swallow walked forward, began to canter, and then broke into a gallop, Pippin gripping her reins, onto the bridge over the ford, and out of the Shire at last. Behind him, he heard a horn sound long and broad, a blessing for a journey, and knew it was Merry.


	2. Knight of Gondor

_Part II_

**Knight of Gondor**

* * *

The pressure of the man's blade upon Trollsbane was almost more than Pippin could manage. He depended on tricks of positioning and leverage to make up for his lack of size. What that depended on, was movement.

Pippin stepped back with his left foot and lowered his sword. Suddenly off-balance, the man stumbled forward, already cursing. Pippin spun and smacked the flat of his blade onto the man's back, then over the man's head to touch the steel to the man's neck.

Applause. "Wonderfully played, Peregrin," said Faramir, Steward of Gondor. "You have gotten the better of the captain of my guard."

"Indeed, my lord, he has," agreed Beregond on his knees. "Now, would my lord Peregrin be kind enough to spare my life and withdraw his blade …?"

Pippin did so with a chuckle, allowing Beregond to rise. They sheathed their weapons. "It's good to see you well, Beregond!" said Pippin.

"Likewise, my lord."

_Even he calls me 'my lord'_, thought Pippin glumly._ I'll never be able to get away from it here._

He heard footsteps behind him and the slither of steel being drawn from a scabbard. A grin curled up his cheeks. "Shall I leave Gondor without a Steward, then?" he jested, turning to face Faramir.

Faramir's eyes were full of mirth though his face seemed grave. "I vow that I shall not give your lady or my lord Meriadoc any cause to grieve for you."

"And what about Sam?"

"Samwise will not mind. Guard yourself!" And Faramir met him with a low pass. Pippin leapt back and parried, flat against flat.

A small crowd of guardsmen and nobles began to leave their own exercises and gather in the drill hall, drawn by the sight of the Steward and the _Ernil i Pheriannath_ duelling with real blades. Pippin felt good: he remembered most of Faramir's methods, and he doubted the Man likewise knew his.

They paused for breath. Their faces gleamed with perspiration as they grinned at each other. Faramir stripped off his tunic and flung it to a guardsman. Pippin did the same. He wore no singlet underneath and the Men remarked in awe at the faded scars upon his chest, stomach and back. As boys during the siege of Gondor they had heard of the valor of the Prince of Halflings before the Black Gate, of his slaying of the stone troll that decimated the selfsame guard to which they now belonged. The halfling had been little more than a boy himself then, a lad who with the Fellowship of the Ring had walked into the light of legend in his own lifetime—a situation heretofore reserved for Elves, whose lifetimes were endless.

Pippin would have pointed out, had he not been otherwise occupied, that killing the troll had been almost lucky. Lucky that he had been too short to be caught by the first swing of the creature's mace. Lucky that he had a sword capable of piercing the gravelly crust of its skin. Lucky he had been too mad and stupid to run. But he did not point that out. He was better now, and he was enjoying himself.

Faramir and Peregrin fought on. The delight on their faces was the only thing that surpassed the deadliness of their strokes. Faramir's sword was long and keen, an heirloom from the days of Cirion. Trollsbane was smaller, but older far.

Pippin noticed Faramir was growing tired. At forty-three Faramir was nearing middle age, Númenórean blood or no. For a moment Pippin felt angry. Everyone was growing old and settling down. If he saw Legolas, would he see age on the immortal face? No. He'd see the Elven equivalent: an unquenchable longing for the Sea. The Sea. The inexorable Sundering Sea!

Faramir's sharp grunt of pain was followed by murmurs of concern from the audience. Pippin drew up short. Blood glinted on Trollsbane's edge.

"Faramir! Oh, dear, I'm so sorry!"

Faramir held his side, but blood seeped between his fingers. "Nay, fear not," he said with a tight smile, "it is not a mortal wound. My own folly for underestimating you. The pupil has surpassed the mentor."

"If you call me 'little one' I shall finish the job, and Strider will have to find a new Steward."

Faramir laughed, then winced. He withdrew his hand and examined the wound. "It is not mortal, but it is deep enough to need a physician's skill," he said. "I shall have to withdraw from the field, Master Peregrin, lest my lady catch me neglecting my health."

"You are too late to avoid that, my lord!"

All heads turned as the Princess Eowyn approached. She paused before her husband, hands on her hips, regarding him critically. "So the Steward of Gondor is bested by a halfling. Fallen, fallen is Númenor the great."

"'tis ever the curse of the Men of the West to be undone by their own works," Faramir replied, "and so it is now with Pippin's sword."

"The sword is the arm that wields it, and the mind behind it," Eowyn rejoined, appraising Pippin with her gaze. Then she smiled and kissed Faramir on the cheek. "Go to the Houses of Healing. I shall find you there."

Faramir laughed and caressed Eowyn's jaw. "My lady."

"My lord."

Pippin walked away. He picked up his shirt and slung it on his shoulder, and took up a cloth with which to clean his sword. Faramir was in some ways a closer friend to him than Strider; his closest friend who was not a hobbit. He admired Eowyn, whom Merry would always claim as sister. To see their love and affection should have pleased him. Instead he was aflame with jealousy. _What is _wrong_ with me?_

"You have bested the captain of the Ithilien guard, master _holbytla_," he heard behind him. He turned, and beheld Eowyn removing her long dress. The guards who were not of Ithilien and did not know the lady's ways were trying their best to disappear. But Beregond stood next to his princess, accepting her gown and handing her a cord with which to bind her long tresses. Pippin saw that beneath her healer's robes and lady's gown Eowyn wore singlet and breeches like her husband. She had no boots, however, and removing her slippers strode forward barefoot. "And you have caused the Steward of Gondor to yield," Eowyn added.

She held out her hand, and Beregond produced a sword, short and one-handed, with two horse's heads forming the hilt. Eowyn took it and twirled it in her wrist without difficulty. Her arms were slender and feminine, but stronger than many a youth's.

"But now, ah, defend yourself," Eowyn finished, "for you face a shieldmaiden of the Mark! And ungentle are we!" And she strode forward.

Pippin grinned again, and raising Trollsbane touched his brow to its blade, as Strider and Faramir taught him. Otherwise he remained silent and let the clash of swords speak for him.

Beregond had been less than his skill. Faramir, being his teacher, thought himself superior, and underestimated Pippin. Eowyn was his match. Her sword of the Mark was made for plain battle, and she moved with ruthless grace. She knew how to fight from horseback, trained to attack an enemy below her. Pippin was hard-pressed to find any advantage; he found himself truly on the defensive for the first time, managing to parry and evade, not to advance.

Still, in the Shire his dueling partner had been Merry, who knew the Rohirric style. She would tire. She was past thirty, and of little Númenórean blood. She, too, was growing old.

Pippin saw the slightest hint of an opening as Eowyn caught her breath. He took it, attempting an attack with upstrokes and midstrokes that soon had Eowyn on the defensive. He did not let her regroup to use her height and regain the advantage. He won ground as she gave it.

Eowyn's face showed little of the delight that Faramir's had. She refused to be bested by any man, friendly duel between friends or not. With a cry she spun and then lashed out with the flat of the blade, intending to knock Trollsbane out of Pippin's hands. Pippin anticipated her and braced himself as hard as he could.

The thick, heavy sword of the Mark struck the ancient steel of Cardolan. With a cruel crash both blades broke.

"Aah!" cried Eowyn, grabbing her wrist.

"Ouch!" Pippin said simultaneously, dropping the broken hilt and stumbling.

Beregond and the Ithilien guard rushed to their aid. Eowyn leaned on him, but offered her hand to Pippin. "Forgive me, Pippin! Foolish was it, and it has cost you your sword."

Pippin tried his best to be gallant, but the sight of Trollsbane smarted dearly. "You are the victor, my lady," he said. "And I can pick up another one of these care of our friendly local barrow wights." _Not that I'm going back any time soon. My sword!_

"No, you shall not need to replace it," said Eowyn. "The smiths of the city can reforge it. Or, if you wish, in a week or two Gimli's folk in the Glittering Caves could be—"

"No," said Pippin with a harshness he immediately regretted. Eowyn did not flinch, but her gaze turned steely. "I mean, no, thank you, my lady. But I don't have the time." He picked up his shirt and wiped the sweat from his face and chest before putting it back on. "I've lingered here too long as it is."

Eowyn bent and picked up the shards of Trollsbane. "Linger yet long enough for me to regift this to you," she said. Beneath her kindness shimmered steel. "I shall not like to see you venture forth swordless and disarmed into your quest."

"I have no quest," Pippin told her, unable to keep his voice pleasant. But Eowyn's face became undecipherable to him, and he let his words die.

* * *

Pippin had been in Minas Tirith for a week. The journey from the Shire had been swift and uneventful, the Greenway freshly paved and well-patrolled, the only obstacles being the cart-trains of Men resettling the countries of Minhiriath and Enedwaith. Not wanting to turn his journey into merely a visit with old friends, he took the long road south around the White Mountains and along the coast. For the first few days of the journey he was satisfied. But his nights were stricken with dreams, of the war, of Diamond, of a desert road. Finally on a showery morning in May, he rounded the bend at Harlond, and saw again Gondor's capital.

To his chagrin, he found that Strider and the court were absent. "The King Elessar is making a visit of state to Dale and the Kingdom Under The Mountain," he was informed. "He was accompanied by Queen Arwen and the lords Legolas and Gimli."

_What, everyone's gone north?_ He had wished to avoid old friends, and now it seemed it was they who had inadvertently avoided him. "Who is in charge?" he asked the courtier.

"The Steward of Gondor," was the reply, and nothing could stop Pippin from grinning like a callow youth at the sight of Faramir. But Faramir was often busy, and they had not been able to spend time together until that morning when he had visited Pippin's training session with Beregond.

Pippin had been assigned his old quarters in the citadel, the one he had shared first with Gandalf and then with Merry in the heady months after Sauron's fall and before the arrival of Arwen. Swallow was stabled in the mews containing Shadowfax's old stall. His attendant was a young soldier whom he thought he recognized.

He had been right. "Do you not know my face any longer, master _perian_?" said the youth.

Pippin had blinked and then laughed. "Bergil!"

They clasped shoulders. "It is an honor to attend to you during your visit, my lord," said Bergil.

"Please, Bergil, call me Pippin. Or Peregrin if you must. Last I saw you, you were threatening to stand me on my head."

"As you wish, Lord Peregrin." Pippin gave up.

Now he leaned on the balustrade of the balcony outside his chambers, with the terraces of the city of kings flowing out beneath him. The Moon was bright upon the townlands. Pippin saw villages and hamlets where once only farmland had been, and farms where once were fallow fields. Lamps in the homes and lanes of the villages created a constellation upon the Pelennor. The city was a mountain of gleaming towers sparkling with lamplight, from the great gate to the Tower of Ecthelion. Minas Tirith was not the oldest city in Middle-earth, nor the largest, but gazing across from his high perch Pippin thought no other city would ever again be as breathtaking.

Still, there were older cities …

Bergil appeared. "Sir? The Steward is here."

"He is?" So late. "Well, then, send him in, Bergil."

He wondered what Faramir wanted. He looked around his chambers. No time to tidy. What did Pervinca always say? _The day Pippin tidies will be Friday the first …_

Faramir entered and observed Pippin's attempts at cleaning. "You should get Bergil to fetch a chambermaid," he said.

"Forty years of my sisters trying to get me to pick up after myself," Pippin replied, "won't be forgotten by anything so simple as my being a thousand miles away and a grown hobbit."

"Why not the servants?"

"Don't ask me. For some reason my mother and my sisters didn't want me spoiled. It didn't work. Have I told you the story of how my father became Thain?"

"Ah," said Faramir. "A sordid tale of lust, intrigue, and murder. How is your sister?"

"Well. Everybody's well."

"Your lady wife?"

"Wonderful," Pippin said. He didn't like the turn of the conversation

"She remains behind."

"Obviously."

He could feel Faramir's long sight peering into his thoughts. Pippin didn't like the feeling. He slammed his mind shut with such strength Faramir physically blinked.

"Forgive me," said Faramir. "I did not think you would mind."

"Well I do. So keep your Númenórean gifts out of my head, thank you very much."

Faramir nodded. "My friend—if I may still presume to call you so …"

Pippin felt bad. "Of course I'm your friend," he said. "You're closer to me than anyone except Merry and Sam."

"Not even the King?"

"Not even Strider."

"Then forgive a close friend's concern, Peregrin. You arrived here six days ago, seeking lore regarding Far Harad. The libraries have been open to you day and night. I see you have found some of what you seek." He indicated the bound books and open scrolls, and the sheafs scribbled with Pippin's blocky hand. "Yet you have not shared why."

Pippin sighed. He had been too guarded among good friends who knew him well.

"I'm just restless, Faramir," he said. "That's all."

"All?" repeated Faramir. "Restless enough to leave wife and home to venture headlong into a foreign land so far distant few in Gondor have seen it themselves?" Faramir waited, and then when it was clear he would receive no answer, he ventured, "Have you and your lady yet have a child?"

Pippin smiled. "Yes." He gazed fondly at his friend, knowing this would please him. "I named him after you."

"I am honored indeed."

"I'd think he even looks like you."

"That would be odd."

"No odder than anything else that's ever happened to me."

He heard Faramir sigh and then rest in silence. He wondered if Faramir were probing his mind again.

"You can always stop me, my friend," Faramir said. _Ah, so he was_, thought Pippin. "It is my gift, as it was my father's, to perceive the thoughts of others. You, however, need not fear unwanted intrusion delving too deep. That you can discern my gaze is a gift in itself. That you can thwart it with your will is better than a broad shield."

Pippin scoffed, uncomfortable. "Next you'll be telling me I've long sight from some distant Elvish strain."

"Are there not tales of a fairy bride in your line?"

"Certainly. As certain as the fact that my ancestor's head could not have reached her navel."

"A fool, and a child, you came to this city in the dark days of my father, and you gladdened his heart, such as it was. I see neither child nor fool before me. A halfling, hard, bold and wicked."

"Treasonous Bergil. Now who's making fun?"

"Men of Gondor do not make fun."

Pippin stalked away. "I didn't come here to be talked out of what I want to do," he said. "You don't understand my reasons."

"And you should not feel the need to explain them. But, Peregrin, do you understand them yourself? Or do you fly into the unknown not only heedlessly, but without even hope?"

Pippin refused to answer. He feared what he might say.

Faramir sighed. "Will you not let your friends dissuade you?"

Pippin shook his head.

"Even I?"

Again Pippin refused.

"It saddens me to think you unhappy even in these golden days," said Faramir, and he crossed the room and laid a warm gloved hand upon Pippin's shoulder. Pippin looked up at the Steward, and saw only kindness and worry in his eyes.

Faramir knelt. "Hast thou forgotten I owe thee my life, Peregrin Took?"

Pippin was a hobbit. Hobbits do not shy from embracing. He did not.

* * *

Pippin was in the Shire. Swallow was galloping through the Westmarch. Behind Pippin, the woody crests of the Far Downs receded. Before him loomed the starlit ridge of the Tower Hills.

He rode up their slopes. The wind blew in from the sea, which he could discern, the Firth of Lune, from the summit of the tallest hill. He turned away from it, over his shoulder, to the tallest of the three elf towers. There was a door at the base. It was shut.

Pippin went to the door and touched its handle with his hand. It did not move.

"I'm here," he said to it. "I've come."

The door opened, like the unsealing of a crypt.

Stairs led to the summit. There were artifacts in the dimness, mathoms of long ago, but Pippin ignored them. He climbed the staircase through shadows broken by shafts of moonlight without pause or word.

Atop the tower was a chamber. Within the chamber was a pedestal. Upon it rested a _palantir_.

Pippin walked up to it. Its pedestal was four feet tall. He could just look over its edge. But he didn't need the pedestal. He needed the stone.

He reached for the orb and gently rolled it off its platform into his arms. He looked at it. It remained dark and still.

Pippin sat, or did he fall? He rested on the ground, the _palantir_ on his lap, dim and void. He grasped it with both hands and said, "Show him to me. Let me see."

For a long instant the stone remained silent. Then in its depth it began to glimmer.

"Yes, please," said Pippin. "Show him to me. I have to see him! I want to see if he's all right!"

Clouds whirled and storms roiled within the _palantir_, then: grey. Pippin frowned, and then realized he was looking upon the sea, miles and miles of sea, slipping away from him at tremendous speed. He could almost feel the wind clutching at his clothes and hair. Filling his nostrils, crushing them if he tried to turn his head. Tearing pieces of himself away. He ignored the discomfort. He had to see! He had to know!

The sea ended. Waves washed upon jeweled shores and a quay with moored ships like seabirds. Beyond it, a city with towers woven into the trees. Upon the side of a mountain was a waterfall. In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. His hair was still dark, his face bright. He looked right at Pippin, who staggered under the glare of what seemed like all the heavens of the world.

"Your jewel is in the desert," said Frodo. "Wake up, baby cousin."

Pippin bolted awake. "Frodo!" But no, it was just a dream. There was no _palantir_ in the Tower Hills. That had gone with Frodo too. With Frodo, and Bilbo, and Gandalf. Across the Sea. Never to return.

He picked up his cup where he'd placed it by the bedside and took a sip of water. Then, in a fit of pique, he flung it across the room and dashed it against the hearth, where it lay in pieces. He'd leave in the morning.

* * *

Pippin rose late. He had managed to fall asleep again, and missed first and second breakfast. He ate a couple of peaches from the platter of fruit in his chamber. He washed. Then he dressed in the new clothes that Eowyn had given him., including a belt that seemed meant for a scabbard. Pippin wondered if today were the day she'd return his sword.

He found a pair of leather vambraces, made of tough, polished black leather, adorned with the White Tree and seven stars. The little scroll next to them said they were from Beregond and Bergil.

He looked at himself in the mirror. He looked … rascally. Rascally?

"Well, I do, and I think I like it," he said to his reflection. "Don't we, precious? Yes, we do."

He sighed. "I'll end up like that old villain yet, I fear," he mused. "Especially if I don't have something to eat. After all, here I am, missing first and second breakfast, and possibly elevenses, and already having a nice conversation with no one but myself. _Gollum, gollum_." He was hungry.

Bergil was already standing outside the door. "Good morrow, Pippin," he said. He saw the vambraces and smiled. "They fit you. Who were you speaking to?"

"No one, precious," said Pippin, who couldn't help himself. "Would you come with me for breakfast? What time is it?"

"An hour past second watch."

"Oh dear. Breakfast, second breakfast, and elevenses then."

"I shall run ahead and alert the King's banquet hall."

"You do that. No, I'm only joking. What a lovely day." It was: springtime in its fullness, breezes full of sea tang and all the spices of the meadows and fields that lay between Minas Tirith and the limpid waters of the Bay of Belfalas. The Anduin, brown with flood, lazed its way through Harlond towards the sea. From the height of the Citadel Pippin thought he espied Pelargir, a creamy glimmer at the river's end.

"Pelargir was a thousand years old when Gondor was founded," he said, pondering.

"So we are told," Bergil answered, a line of confusion tracing its way above his eyes. "Though I myself have never been there."

"_The great port above Anduin's mouths was built as a haven for the ships of Númenor in the reign of Tar-Atanamir_," Pippin recited. "_The harbor became the chief refuge in Middle-earth for the Faithful of Númenor. But Umbar was greater still._"

"Umbar is yet a dangerous place," Bergil said dubiously. "The lords of that city swore in treaty with the King, but Corsairs still have raided merchant vessels on occasion."

"How goes the navy building?" asked Pippin.

"You should ask the Steward," said Bergil. "Although … friends of mine are training as sailors, and the ships are being built in the new harbor on the Second Mouth of Anduin, across from Pelargir."

"_Gondor's first thousand years saw her rise under her sea-kings_," Pippin said, again reciting from a book he'd committed to memory. "_At her height, she approached the glory of lost Númenor, and all the nations of the world came to the court of the King beneath the Dome of Stars in Osgiliath._"

Bergil was regarding him with curiosity. "You know more of our history than I do, my lord," he said. "It is clear you have put in long hours of study. May I ask why?"

_The whole histories of Middle-earth_, Pippin thought. He missed Gandalf.

"Simple curiosity, Bergil," he said. "It's a family trait, you know."

He quickened his pace, so Bergil had to walk faster to catch up.

Faramir and Eowyn awaited in the Courtyard of the Fountain with another person, a tall, swarthy man with dark eyes and a head covering that seemed to be made of fine fabric wound around the head in a twisted rope. The man had a short, pointed beard and eyes rimmed with dark pigment.

"Peregrin," said Faramir gravely. "This is Sartanukil, a merchant of Harad. He is sailing for Umbar this evening from Pelargir. I have informed him of your ambition to visit the lands to the south and he has agreed that, if you wish, you may join him as a guest aboard his vessel."

Pippin bowed to the stranger. "I would be happy to accept such a generous offer, my lord Sartanukil," he said. "I am Peregrin Took, son of Paladin Thain of the Shire."

"Sweet fortune be upon you, _Razanur Tuk_," replied the Southron, repeating Pippin's name in such a fashion that it seemed exotic and strange. "Our voyage is surely to be blest with the company of one of the great warriors who abetted the return of the King to mighty Gondor."

Neither Pippin, nor Faramir, responded in any way other than with more bowing. But both had heard what was beneath the surface of the words of the merchant of Harad.

"I am only half a warrior, my lord, if stature is any account," said Pippin. "Though I confess to some half-skill with a blade."

"Gods willing, that shall not be necessary while we sail blue Belfalas," replied Sartanukil.

_But when I land in Umbar I'm sure a Dúnedain sword will draw attention_, thought Pippin. That reminded him of Trollsbane's fate, and he turned to Eowyn, who smiled.

"Yes, it is here," she said, and she produced the object she had kept behind her in her cloak. "Your sword is reforged, my friend."

Pippin stared at it, its hilt bright against a new black leather scabbard emblazoned with silver filigree of the White Tree and Stars. He took it from Eowyn's hands and was amazed he did not tremble. He looked at her, unable to keep from smiling like a child on someone's birthday, and then at Faramir, and even at the Southron.

Then he drew it. This was a new sword. It slipped easily, with a hushed whisper, from its scabbard. The hilt was brushed to a gleam, with a grip wrapped with black leather. The enchanted steel of Cardolan had gone into a shape new and fresh. Its grip was longer, its pommel slightly larger, balancing the longer and more gracefully tapered blade. It was no longer a child's sword wielded by a hobbit. It was now a hobbit's sword, handed-and-a-half and more than two feet long from pommel to tip.

He stepped a short distance from the watching Big People and tried a few cuts and passes. Perfect. He had grown used to adapting to the idiosyncrasies of fighting with a weapon meant for Men that he felt new and strange.

The sun gleamed on the blade. Pippin noticed runes etched into the fuller near the curved Gondorin crossguard.

He read them. "_Troll's bane falcon's strike_," he said aloud, and frowned quizzically. "Falcon strike?"

"Surely you have heard your epithet among the young soldiers of the Tower Guard."

"I thought they were joking." He had seen, at times, the little falcons, with their golden eyes, silvery breasts, and sable hoods. He'd heard their piercing cries often while he dwelled here with the Fellowship in the aftermath of Sauron's fall, as they nested among tall cliffs and high places—and what was Minas Tirith but a city of cliffs and high places?

"In Gondor of old," remarked Faramir, "the falcon was kept by the kings as a companion in war and sport. Its name—your name—means 'wanderer'."

"I never gave any thought that my name had any meaning," Pippin confessed, feeling uncomfortable with being compared to such a fell and noble creature. "It was just a jest, in the way of my people. Peregrin I may be, but everyone calls me Pippin, and as far as I know the noblest meaning to come from that is when my sister Pervinca threatened to bake me into pie."

Laughter, as Pippin had hoped. "Never let the expectations of others rule your opinion of yourself," said Eowyn, "be you wanderer, falcon, or windfallen apple." And she smiled with Pippin.

Sartanukil was watching them. "The nomads of the deserts have a saying: the sand can bear what the river cannot."

"Indeed," said Faramir.

Pippin felt a surge of feeling for his friends and for Minas Tirith. He knew if he did not leave now, he never would; and he'd find himself back in Tuckborough before summer. He sheathed his sword and deftly tied its scabbard to his belt.

"I must go," he said shortly. "I'm sure you wish to get to your ship as soon as possible," he said to Sartanukil, who tipped his head in acknowledgement.

Pippin went to Faramir. The two friends clutched arms, and then Pippin hugged him. Faramir did not resist. "Farewell," said the Steward of Gondor. "You are a Guard of the Citadel, wherever you may wander; the White Tower will know you and welcome you home."

Pippin nodded. "Take care, Faramir. Tell Strider I'm sorry I missed him. He really should stay home more often."

Faramir laughed. "I shall tell him."

Eowyn was still smiling when he embraced her. She hugged him. "Far fields may you find, falconling," she said. "Take care of your steed. She is of the _Mearas_, and will not fail you."

"I'll remember that. And thank you for the sword."

"You are most welcome."

Pippin pulled away. He gazed up at her with a cheeky smile. "Merry was right about you."

Eowyn laughed. "What did my sword-brother say about me?"

"All sorts of nice things," Pippin replied.

"Well then," said Eowyn, "when you see him again, give Merry my love."

Pippin nodded. "But if you get to see him before I do," he asked her, "give him mine."

So departed Peregrin Took from Minas Tirith and all that he had yet known.


	3. The Bay of Belfalas

_Part III_

**The Bay of Belfalas**

* * *

Pippin was seasick for days.

He lay in a hammock slung between a cabinet and a rack in what he supposed to be the merchant vessel _Seafoam_'s second-best passenger cabin, located in the tall forecastle, which was about the size of the best pantry in Bag End. He had taken to bed almost immediately after boarding the ship, and would have bolted with Swallow off the deck if the merest movement of his head didn't cause him to almost pass out. The hammock was not much better. After three days of its gentle swaying with the swells, and a diet of so-called biscuits that he was convinced were paperweights made of old wood and packed clay, he was ready to try drowning. What had possessed him to accept Sartanukil's offer? He was a hobbit! Hobbits didn't belong on the sea!

Then on the fourth day Pippin opened his eyes and, instead of fetching the pail for his morning hurl, lay on his hammock for a moment trying to figure out what was different. A window showed the same hazy golden light it had shown for the past three days. The ships bells rang eight times as he listened. They were still underway, somewhere on the way between Pelargir and Umbar, and his hammock still rolled with the influence of the swells.

Oh, that was it. The hammock was moving, but he wasn't dizzy or nauseous. Pippin's eyes grew wide. He wasn't seasick! He wasn't seasick anymore! Oh, great glorious stars in heaven, he was cured! He sat up with enthusiasm, and the hammock responded by dumping him on the deck with a thump.

Black Speech echoed through the cabin. Pippin sat up, rubbing his elbow and side.

The door opened and a young Man peeked in. "Master halfling?" said the youth, whose name was Cellas and who had been keeping Pippin company—he was a friend of Bergil's. He observed Pippin on the floor for a moment. "Are you hurt?"

"Just my pride," Pippin said, standing. Cellas' eyes widened with his smile.

"You have found your legs," said the sailor.

"Yes, two of them," Pippin replied wryly, though he felt proud. "I come back to you now, at the turn of the tide."

"The Bay of Belfalas has no tide."

"Never mind. So, where are we?"

"Come up on deck and see for yourself!"

Pippin nodded. "Let me just make myself presentable." He looked down at himself and gave a sniff. He was dismayed. "I don't suppose I could take a bath …?"

He couldn't, and had to settle for a basin of cold water and a cloth. He scrubbed off the grime of the last three days as best he could, and donned a clean shirt and pair of breeches.

Sartanukil stood with the captain, Anducar, upon the forecastle, when Pippin joined them. Cellas, working the halyards of the sail with other sailors, grinned at him as he walked passed. Pippin grinned back.

"Ah, _Razanur_," said Sartanukil with a bow. "How fortunate that you have recovered."

"Thank you, sir," said Pippin with a nod. "I hope to be better company for whatever remains of our voyage."

The merchant smiled. "There are many days yet before we reach the City of the Corsairs. Enough time for us to enjoy your worthy company. Please spend your evenings with us and dine."

"Thank you, I think I will. We hobbits do enjoy our mealtimes. Which reminds me, am I too late for breakfast?"

The captain eyed him. "There may be some gruel leftover from the morning meal," he said.

Gruel. Pippin's stomach threatened to break its promise to behave. He shushed it. "No, I don't think I should trouble the cook," he said hastily. "After all, I'm sure it is soon to be elev—er, luncheon."

"The day meal is in four hours."

Four hours! Pippin gave a half-hearted smile and decided he needed to distract himself. He turned to the sea … and found himself entranced.

The first time he had ever seen the sea, grief and many tears had distracted him. And indeed, the Sundering Sea as glimpsed at the Grey Havens had been a cool presence, silvery and remote.

Not so here. Pippin knew they traveled near the coast. He knew the Bay of Belfalas was a sunny and forgiving sea. But here before him stretched a rolling carpet of indigo blue, darker and deeper and infinitely more motile than anything he had ever before experienced.

He leaned over the bow rail. The water, struck by the sun, was clear to a great depth. He espied shapes in the water, matching the _Seafoam_'s speed. He cried out in shock and joy as one of these shapes leapt up into the clear air. A fish, longer than a hobbit was tall, with a smile upon it long snout.

"Dolphin," said Cellas, coming behind him. "They follow ships and are known to save sailors from drowning."

Pippin could only stare raptly as another of the creatures leapt up from the sea. It looked like they were dancing and laughing. He wasn't aware he was laughing with them until he heard himself over the bustling wind.

"Cellas," said Anducar sternly. "You are still on this watch."

Cellas nodded. "I am sorry, sir." With an apologetic glance at Pippin, he rejoined the activity on the deck.

Pippin turned to watch. The _Seafoam_ was a broad-drafted, round-bottomed carrack with a high forecastle and sterncastle and two masts, a hundred feet long and forty feet wide amidships. From its main mast swayed a wide yard from which hung the mainsail. It seemed much of the attention of the crew was dedicated to controlling the immense and heavy sail and its yards, as they increased or decreased its size and angle to accommodate changes in the wind. Ropes were everywhere around the mast, some seeming to hold it up, others used to hold the corners of the sail and direct the angle of the yard. The second mast was short with a steeply angled and offset yard bearing a triangular sail. It looked like the sails of the Corsair ships he remembered from the Battle of the Pelennor. Another triangular sail was attached to the spars perpendicular to the ship's bowsprit. Pippin didn't know how fast they were going, but it seemed plenty fast to him, and the wide, almost shoelike bow of the ship rode gently upon the swells.

"So, worthy friend." Sartanukil made Pippin turn, regarding him with his veiled brown eyes. "How do you enjoy the sea?"

Pippin beheld the immensity one more time, and decided. "I love it!" he declared, laughing.

"Myself, I do not have a great liking for it," said the merchant, stroking his beard. "However, my business is one where time is often more important than appeasing my qualms."

Pippin nodded. "What goods do you transport, if I may ask?"

"Cosmetics and herbal extracts," was the merchant's easy reply. "Too long have the pale-skinned and raven-haired women of Gondor gone without the precious substances in which women take such joy. But these precious things would spoil in the hot sun of a caravan, or fall victim to highway robbers, so I hire merchant vessels where I only have the occasional Corsair to deal with. And, loyal to Umbar and their lord and tower, I can arrange for my safety and that of my goods even in that event. Unless, gods forbid it, we come upon a so-called 'free' Corsair or true pirate.

"Ah, the sea. Perhaps it is welcoming to you, but I would much rather have solid land beneath my feet."

Pippin left the merchant and went to the bow of the vessel, filling his lungs with the wind off the waves. He gazed out searchingly toward the horizon. "I've had solid land beneath my feet, between my toes and in my hair, since I was born," he said. "It's not enough anymore."

Sartanukil eyed him. "Is that common among your kind?"

Pippin laughed. "No, indeed it isn't! My family has an adventurous streak. My cousin Isengar, who died thirty years before I was born, went to sea in his youth. It's the sort of daring, adventurous, foolhardy thing Tooks are known for. I seem to have it worse than most. Which is strange, seeing as I never would have thought of setting foot outside the Shire until …" He broke off, eyeing the Southron warily.

Suddenly the merchant laughed. "Until the gods called you and your kin to deeds so renowned all the known lands speak of them!"

"All the lands?" asked Pippin with disappointment.

"Ah. So that is what you seek. Somewhere in the great world where no one knows of you."

Pippin nodded as he turned away, back to the horizon. "Yes." He glanced up at the Southron, who was smiling at him knowingly.

"I sup with the captain at six bells," he told Pippin. "You will join us."

"If you wish it, master merchant," said Pippin with a nod.

Sartanukil bowed again. Pippin turned away, back to the horizon, his hands clenched to the gunwale.

* * *

So passed the next three days. Pippin woke with the morning light over the coast, a distant but visible dun line on the eastern horizon: Haradwaith. He messed in the company of Cellas and his watch and, with the captain's permission, accompanied his young friend about his duties. Happy to share with the _Ernil i Pheriannath_ what he had learned, Cellas filled Pippin's hours with instruction on seamanship. Pippin made himself learn.

"Now show me a reef knot," Cellas requested. Pippin made an overhanded knot around the foot of the sail, then brought the end next to him over his left hand and through the opening. He pulled tight.

"Well done!" said Cellas. Pippin grinned, and then leapt to his feet and helped the boys hoist the foresail.

They sailed through a sunny day into a foggy evening when the _Seafoam_ lit all her lamps. A sailor stood upon the prow, blowing on a horn to warn any other ships of its passage.

Pippin stood upon the sterncastle with the officer of the watch and the coxswain at the helm. He walked up to study the chart the officer held in his hands.

"I understand this evening fog is usual off the desert coast," he said.

The officer glanced down at him, and nodded. "Aye. A cold current appears here from deep in the Bay. As the desert sheds the heat of the day, the cold water creates the fog."

"Are we in any danger?"

The officer smiled indulgently. "This is merely light fog," he said. "Have no fear, little one."

Pippin smiled sweetly. "You have reassured me," he said. Then he went to the coxswain, who was trying hard not to smile. Pippin mimicked the officer, and the coxswain couldn't help snort.

"What was that, Ondil?"

"Nothing, sir. Fog got in my nose."

Swallow was quartered in the rear hold. Pippin led her onto the deck for a few laps whenever he could. The sailors marveled at the animal's composure.

"Oh, she's a smart lass, aren't you, Swallow?" Pippin said now, patting her cheek. Swallow nickered indulgently. "You know there's an untried road at the end of this sea," Pippin went on, "and in the meantime you're enjoying the sights, just like me." He fed her a carrot-top left over from cooking the evening's soup.

Evenings he sat in the captain's mess with Sartanukil and Anducar, dining on salted meat and vegetables. "We do not have meals often enough for your liking, I fear," Anducar told him the first time he dined with them.

"Your table is more than generous," said Pippin, though both Men laughed at his obvious dismay. But the captain's ale and wine were excellent, and Pippin was soon regaling them with stories of the Quest, the War, and the Shire.

" … so the riders spear him, and Merry and I run right into Fangorn. Now, no one of course in their right minds would willingly go into Fangorn, at least not then; and probably not now, if they're looking for wood and not trees! Well, as soon as we realized that the place was quite hostile to two-leggers, we came upon this hill with a broken tree on top. Imagine our surprise, when the tree started to talk to us …"

" … and she had to go away for a while, but Cousin Ferumbras gave her this bejeweled comb to wear in her hair at his accession. He formally named my father his heir …"

" … so Frodo rode on, on and on, to the Ford itself, with the Black Riders at his heels. He's falling fast now, you realize, falling to the wound dealt him by the Witch-king. Yet still he stands at the ford—"

He broke off. He looked up at his fellow diners. Anducar was grave and sober. Sartanukil was listening closely.

He smiled. "Forgive me. Suffice to say, my cousin lived, thanks to the craft of Elrond of Rivendell. Strider, that is, King Elessar brought us to Imladris shortly thereafter."

He took a gulp of ale. "How about a tale of Harad, then, master merchant?"

Sartanukil acceded. "This is the tale of a young shoemaker, lazy and disgraced, who redeemed himself when he discovered an enchanted lamp …"

Pippin moved his hammock to the crew quarters. He bunked next to Cellas. They spoke of Gondor, and Minas Tirith where Cellas was born, and other things. As men's conversations are wont to do, they spoke of women, Cellas describing his sweetheart first shyly and then boldly.

"And you, master _perian_?"

Pippin thought of Diamond. "My wife," he said, "is very beautiful," and described her as best he could.

That night he dreamed of her, riding on Swallow, and a falcon flew before her.

* * *

"I don't know about you, Swallow," Pippin said on the seventh day of their journey, rounding the Black Cape of Umbar, "but I think I'm beginning to fall for the sea."

He scratched her flank. "Oh, don't worry, I'm not going to abandon you," he said. "We've plenty of riding to do yet. I don't think fate has it in store for us to be parted so soon. I don't know how you'd like the sands and stone of the Harad, but it's got to be better than being cooped in this hold, roomy as it may be." He smiled. "I think Cellas is enamored of you. He'll want a Rohan horse when he retires. Did you know he and Bergil are in love with sisters from the same family? I met Bergil's maiden; she's lovely, if a little tall, and being a girl of Men she has those tiny, dainty feet …"

He listened to her snuffling as he fed her another carrot-top. "What was that, my girl? I don't know if they have colts in Harad. I'm sure there must be some. For some reason I thought they all rode oliphaunts. I wonder what a baby oliphaunt looks like?"

Then Swallow neighed.

"Say, easy now," Pippin said soothingly. Swallow's eyes were wider, and she stamped her forelegs.

Pippin realized his horse felt danger. Frowning, he tried to calm her, resolving to go on deck and speak with the captain.

The lookout's cry met him at the gangway.

_"Corsairs!"_

* * *

2.

* * *

It was a half again as long as the _Seafoam_, and its jagged prow cut through the waves aslant the wind at implacable speed. Its black sails flared like the fins of a great fish. Black pennants flew from the top tips of the slanted yards. Its flanks were all clad in black timber, and its prow was a jutting blade of black steel. Upon its deck waited a hundred pirates. A steady hail of arrows flew from its deck.

Pippin raced onto deck, ready to fight. But it seemed he had landed in a madhouse. Seamen were running aimlessly, some were trying to abandon ship, others were being beaten by the officers in an attempt to get them to stand and fight. Some held swords and cutlasses with shaking fingers, their faces pale and eyes huge. One of them was Cellas.

"Captain!" Pippin saw Anducar on the sterncastle. The captain was spinning the wheel almost madly, staggering when finally the rudder reached hard over and would no longer stir. "Captain, are we to stand and fight or abandon ship?"

Anducar looked down at him as if stunned. Pippin had seen that look before, and he had to blink furiously to banish the memory of Denethor from his mind. "Captain," Pippin said as sternly as he could, "we're outmatched. If we resist, we shall be slaughtered. You know that." He tried to remember everything he'd read about the Corsairs. "Captain! Surrender your ship. It is the only way to avoid a massacre."

Anducar drew his sword. "No! I am the master of this vessel!" He pushed Pippin aside and shouted, "Arm yourselves! Let none be taken! Die as men of Gondor!"

Pippin picked himself up. "Gondorin pride!" he spat. "He'll get us all killed." He thought of escape, then remembered Swallow in the hold. He searched the horizon. The Moon was new, but on the eastern horizon he discerned a glow that was not the dawn: the lights of Umbar, the most populous city in the world. The coast was but a day's sail away. Could Swallow swim that long?

Ululating cries and curses drew his attention. Grappling hooks flew from the hands of the pirates on the Corsair ship, landing on the gunwales and rigging of the hapless _Seafoam_. They were being pulled closer.

Pippin sighed, and drew Trollsbane. "Well, I suppose this is as good an adventure as any," he said, and ran down to the deck to stand by Cellas.

"Peregrin!" said the young, frightened sailor. "This is no place for a hobbit!"

"Not even one of the Fellowship of the Ring?" Pippin retorted. Cellas stared and then nodded. He was fighting with one of the heroes of the Third Age. "Stay with me," Pippin ordered, and Cellas obeyed.

With a cry pirates swung from their ship onto the _Seafoam_. They were armed with scimitars and flambards and tiny throwing spikes. Where they landed, they attacked, and slew on sight. Pippin saw his friend the coxswain run through upon the wheel. Boarding planks banged onto the deck. The Corsairs were upon them.

In the darkness of the night and the chaos of the battle the _Seafoam_ was overwhelmed. Around him Pippin saw the crew of the merchant vessel slaughtered. Those who fought bravest were given time to fight, even facing down individual pirates in single combat. This was part of their code, Pippin remembered from one of his books. Those who did not flee, who chose to fight, were fought to the death; if any attempted to surrender, they were seized as thralls. The _Seafoam_ had a hundred crew; the Corsairs were more than twice that, and it seemed most of them were on the boarding party.

Soon he stood back-to-back with Cellas among the last of the survivors. And where was Sartanukil? The merchant was Haradrim, perhaps there was a chance he could reason with them. Or ransom them.

A pirate came at him howling. Pippin struck him down. Another came behind, and Cellas slashed at him with a knife. "Down!" Pippin cried, and Cellas ducked as Pippin swung Trollsbane two-handed in a wide arc, catching two of their attackers with its tip. Now more pirates came, drawn by their resistance. They circled the hobbit and the youth, two of the last defenders not yet taken or dead. Pippin's sword held them at bay; those who had tried to break the circle had been wounded or slain. But the numbers were growing. Soon it seemed the whole of the boarding party, a hundred and more men in flowing robes of dark color, surrounded them. Pippin knew he could kill a few if they charged Cellas and himself. But then death or capture would follow. He heard the boy's hard, panicky breathing behind him, and wondered how to go about saving their necks.

A tall man with a straight sword strode onto the deck. He wore a black scarf over the lower part of his face, and his hair was dark. Pippin felt the man's grey eyes rake over him. He hated that feeling.

The man approached, and the pirates parted to let him through. "Watch them, lad," Pippin cautioned Cellas. The boy, his long knife wet as his cheeks, nodded.

The tall man now stood before Pippin. His sword was relaxed but ready.

"A halfling," he said. "On a boat."

Some of the pirates laughed. But the tall man did not. "Surrender," he said, "and I shall be merciful."

"No!" It was Cellas. "Men of Gondor are no one's slaves!"

"Be quiet!" scolded Pippin. He looked up at the tall man. "I challenge you to a duel for our lives."

The pirates looked at the small figure with the keen sword and were torn between amusement and apprehension. But the tall man only nodded. To Pippin's shock, he raised his sword and touched its blade to his brow, just as Strider and Faramir would.

Pippin closed his mouth and did the same.

He soon found that the man was very good. Almost as good as Faramir, and he had only gotten the better of Faramir thanks to his teacher's overconfidence. The other pirates may have charged at him blindly, but this Corsair was taking his true measure. Pippin hoped he wouldn't be found wanting.

He ducked and slashed but the man leapt back out of his reach. The man turned and sliced down, and Pippin had to leap from the cut. The man let him get back on his feet before attacking again. Pippin decoyed to the left and then swung an upward-cutting stroke that nearly cleaved the front of the man's stomach, but the man parried Trollsbane away.

Pippin saw his opening. He spun again, putting all his momentum into a two-handed slash across his opponent's hips. But with sudden swiftness the man leapt forward and to the side in the space left by Pippin's swing. The pommel of the man's sword hurtled at Pippin's head before he could escape it. The blow was hard enough to send his head spinning.

"Peregrin!" he heard Cellas cry. "No!" _No, boy, keep quiet_, thought Pippin, but his head was swimming from the blow. It was all he could do to keep hold of Trollsbane …

He heard the sound of a body falling against the deck. Through the daze in his eyes he turned to look for Cellas, but the boy was not where he sought him …

He felt another blow strike him, and blackness closed in.

* * *

Pippin was taken prisoner and thrown in the hold of the pirate vessel, with irons on his feet and his arms chained to a post. He swam in and out of consciousness for hours, or days, but he saw no other member of the _Seafoam_'s crew in the hold with him, and realized they were all probably dead. He did not see Cellas, and mourned a bit before losing consciousness again.

He was letting himself drift through a grey haze between wakefulness and oblivion when the sharp, spicy scent of food reached him. Pippin blinked his eyes open. The tall Corsair stood before him. He was unchanged from how he had first appeared, his face still swathed in black fabric. In his hand he held a bowl of what looked like stew.

The Corsair spoke first. "You are hungry."

Pippin managed to shake his head in a show of defiance.

"A halfling is always hungry."

"Not this one." His tongue felt sluggish in his mouth. "Where is the crew?"

"The crew of the merchant vessel is dead," said the Corsair. "They should have surrendered the cargo. We would have let them live."

"My friend … the boy with me at the end …"

"He was slain by an arrow," the Corsair answered. "Uinen now shelters him, and all his mates."

Pippin sagged. "Oh, the fool," he whispered, not caring if the Man thought him weak for crying. Cellas had been younger than Bergil.

The man stood by watching the hobbit grieve. When Pippin's tears dwindled, he approached again. "Eat," he said. "Regain your strength."

"For what?" Pippin raised his head. "If you wish for more sport from me, you can save your breath and your meat. I do not give sport for Men, or orcs, or any other creature. Or do you seek to hold me for ransom? You will get none."

He waited as the Corsair remained silent for a long while. Those grey eyes that reminded him so strongly of Strider's in color continued to contemplate Pippin to his discomfort. It was worse than the shackles.

"I believe there would be great ransom indeed, for one of the Companions of the Ring-bearer," said the Corsair at length, startling Pippin. "It would come in the form of hundreds of those new-built Gondorin war galleys blockading the harbor, and the host of the West marching down the south road. Then the Elfstone would offer fair compensation for your life—mercy at the point of Anduril if you lived, the utter ruin of Umbar if you lived no more. Perhaps that would not be so bad. But nothing less I expect of the King _Elessar_ for one of his friends. Whilst the lords of Umbar care not for me."

"I am not one of those," Pippin said. "I am a hobbit of the Shire."

He was startled again when the Man laughed. It was not an evil laugh, but it did not comfort either.

"Forgive me if my memory fails," said Pippin's captor, "but most hobbits of the Shire are not more than four feet tall; seldom do they venture outside their borders, and they do not as a rule carry a sword bearing the tokens of Gondor. Nor wield it, I am sure, with the skill of a Gondorin prince. Boromir or Faramir?" he asked.

He knew everything about him, Pippin realized. "Both," he answered, affecting carelessness. "Unfortunately, as good as they are, or were in the case of the dearly departed, they could not make me two feet taller so I could strike off your head, instead of your legs."

"Either stroke would kill me," said the Man, "so do not attempt to persuade me you are not a threat, small though you may be. But come. I did not wish to add to your discomfort. Eat."

Pippin, in reply, cocked his head aside and raised his arms in their manacles and chains.

"Yes," said the Man. "Perhaps I could free you now, rather than later. Then again, you may not be as reasonable as I hoped you would be, later. Perhaps I shall just feed you myself."

He approached with the bowl, taking the spoon. Pippin protested and tried turn away. "I am not hungry," he said. When the Man persisted, Pippin jerked his head, causing the spoonful of stew to fall to the dirty straw on the brig floor.

The Man's eyes grew angry. "This is food off my own table, halfling," he said. "Do not make me regret my mercy."

"Mercy?" Pippin spat.

"Your life was mine," the Man explained. "I chose not to take it."

"How noble of you," Pippin retorted. "Then again, what else would I expect from a renegade Ranger?"

To Pippin's satisfaction it seemed he'd hit the mark. The Man glared at him. Then again came that laugh, and the black scarf fell away with a tug, revealing a saturnine face beneath a trim black beard.

"Yes, I am Dúnedain," said the Man. "But I have journeyed far from my home and the secret dwellings of my people. I am the captain of the _Sword_. Call me Neimor."

* * *

3.

* * *

Neimor visited him at intervals for the next few days. Pippin finally got so hungry he could not refuse the food Neimor brought him, and to his dismay found it quite delicious. He committed himself to eating the pirates out of supplies. It seemed a good plan, until he wondered if that would lead them to hijacking other vessels.

Neimor continued to be gracious to him, questioning him only about his health and how he was doing. Pippin answered pleasantly that, considering he was chained inside the hold of a pirate ship with little prospect of anything beyond slavery, buggery, or death, whichever came first, he was quite fine, and compliments to the ship's cook. Neimor had laughed at this, and to Pippin's surprise the next day he was led up from the hold onto the deck of the _Sword_.

The first thing Pippin thought of was escape. His next thought was, _Don't be a fool_. The ship, a hundred and thirty feet long and thirty feet broad at the beam, slid low in the water like a wolf in a field, its bow and stern sloping upward, and the transom at the stern extending a poop deck and quarter deck well past the hull. Ports in the hull revealed where banks of oars were deployed for calms and attacks. The great sail of the mainmast all but dwarfed the ship, with the sail of the foremast not much smaller, and the sail on the mizzen the smallest yet still large enough to carpet a comfortable hobbit hole. The three yards jutted into the sky with flying pennants at their tips streaming in the wind. A fourth sail flew from the stay of the foremast connected to the jib boom extending from the bladelike bowsprit. There were more than two dozen men on deck at any one time, and Pippin realized there could well be two hundred crew to this ship. Escape, for the moment, was futile.

Besides, which direction would he swim? They were far out to sea; the smell of the waves was different, the wind was brisk, and no sign of land could be descried. As long as he played along with whatever game Neimor was pursuing, he would be better off on the ship.

Pippin wondered what Neimor was up to. Was it really so simple as he'd said? His words about ransom of so well-known a hostage seemed to make sense; Strider certainly would bring the wrath of Gondor upon Umbar, and Umbar would certainly surrender the _Sword_ and her crew in exchange for maintaining the tenuous peace with the resurgent West. He suspected stories were among the Haradrim that the returned king of Gondor was the same soldier who had burnt their harbor in the days of Ecthelion II, and Umbar did not wish to revisit that now the erstwhile Thorongil was king of Gondor, with Rohan and it was said dwarves and elves at his call.

Pippin wondered at other motives. Slavery? If that was to be his fate, he'd play along until escape or death came into his hands. Preferably escape. Pippin greatly admired dying for a principle, but after having a dance with a hill-troll, living for a principle seemed much more hopeful. But if slavery, why was he not yet being trained for it? Where were the lashings, the breaking of spirit? Neimor was treating him almost as an equal. Unlikely way to make a slave.

He wished he could repay the Corsairs for the death of the crew of the _Seafoam_. Especially Cellas. If he figured out which one of them had slain his friend, then escape or no escape, he'd introduce the fellow to Trollsbane.

If he could ever hold Trollsbane again. "Where is my sword?" he asked Neimor when after two days of near-freedom he had not yet been bound or molested. "And the horse that was in the aft hold. What have you done with her?"

"Your sword is in my keeping," answered Neimor. "The horse is gone."

"Gone?" Pippin's heart sank all over again. "You've had her killed."

"I have not. A horse of Rohan fetches a good price among the breeders of the southern deserts. While you were in the brig, I unloaded the horse, along with much of the cargo of the _Seafoam_, to my agents on shore. I am certain she is now the prized possession of some chieftain of the desert tribes."

Pippin sighed. It was a great loss, but he was grateful Swallow was not slain. _Run away, my girl_, he thought. _Run back to Rohan, to the sweet grass of the Mark. No man can touch you._

The cargo. "And the merchant? Sartanukil? Did you kill him too?"

"Why? Was he a friend to you?"

"No," answered Pippin. "But I should like to know his fate just the same, if it's all right with you. He was a hospitable man."

"I am sure he was," said Neimor dryly. "What did you know of his cargo?"

"Cosmetics and herbal medicines."

"Medicine! Yes, medicine indeed." He led Pippin to his cabin in the stern. It was small and untidy, heaved with scrolls, books, and bedraggled finery. Upon a table was an open crate. Its false bottom had been raised to reveal numerous small phials filled with clear liquid. "Behold the medicine purveyed by the merchant Sartanukil." He lowered a phial to Pippin's gaze.

"What is it?" queried Pippin.

"Extract of poppy," said Neimor. "A narcotic. Very popular among the soldiers of Gondor, I believe."

Pippin stared at the phials. He recognized them now. "Yes," he said. "I was given some of it while I recovered from battle," he said. "It's … powerful."

"It is addictive. But I see you know that."

Pippin nodded. "Yes," he admitted. "I know that."

Neimor gently closed the false lid. "I seized this from another of Sartanukil's shipments, heading north. Upon the _Seafoam_ were the coffers of payment, going back to Umbar no doubt to finance the making of more of the substance, which is made of poppies of Khand. Those are a different sort than those of the north-west of Middle-earth. The extract is more powerful than even that kept at the Houses of Healing." Neimor was evaluating him with his eyes. "Perhaps I should not have shown this to you."

Pippin refused to meet the captain's look. "No," he said lowly. He took a cleansing breath, and summoned the memory of the scent of bruised kingsfoil. It helped. "So. Is this a lucrative trade, then?"

"You can imagine that once the Houses of Healing have cut off their supply, those who have need of the drug must find their own sources," Neimor said. "Lucrative is an understatement."

"What will you do with it? Sell it yourself?"

He was surprised to see Neimor's pale, impassive face color in anger. "_No_," said Neimor. "I run a tight ship. No, this will go to the bottom of the Sea." The grey eyes narrowed. "Perhaps you should rather ask why this man was introduced to you by the Steward of Gondor."

Now it was Pippin's turn to flush. "If I weren't your prisoner, I'd strike you down for speaking that way about someone dear as a brother to me." And if he had his sword, he'd strike him down whether or no. He must have looked angered indeed, for Neimor relented.

"Peace," said the Corsair captain. "I know of the second son of Denethor. He is cunning, but these are not his ways. He would not consort with such as Sartanukil knowingly, unless he had other purposes for the man's fate." Neimor sighed in satisfaction. "In any case, Sartanukil has gone to his long home, and may it be dark and cold where he is! Come. Dine with me."

So did Pippin spend his first week on the renegade ship _Sword_.


	4. Corsairs

_Part IV_

**Corsairs**

* * *

The albatross was caught between the ropes at the joist of the mainmast and the upper yardarm. It had been caught in a sudden gust and blown into the rigging and now was stuck there, weeping piteously. On the deck, the crew of the _Sword_ stared at it dubiously.

"Someone should go up there," said one, an olive-skinned, dark-eyed lad from the vales of Gondor.

"I'd like to see you try it," said another, blond and bearded, a Northman.

"It's just a climb to the crow's nest," said a third, with slant eyes and straight black hair.

"And then what? Shimmy on up the yard and let it loose?" said the second one sarcastically. "Easier to bring down the yard."

"We can't. Our prey will escape." They had spotted another merchant vessel, laden with treasure, earlier that morning, and Neimor had declared pursuit.

"Ah, to Old Stormy's Bones with you," said an old pirate with a swarthy face and a long grey beard that was braided like a dwarf's. "It's bad enough luck we caught this here windwalker, now you all want to go up there and _touch_ it? I'd like to see you try it. Bring the wrath of Old Stormy right down on us all." Old Stormy was his euphemism for Ossë.

An exasperated snort came from behind them, and then in a flash a small, slim, curly-locked figure began climbing the shrouds with a knife in his teeth.

The pirates shook their heads.

"_Razar_," said the slant-eyed one.

"Told you he's crazy," said the dark-eyed boy admiringly.

"He's not crazy. He's a Took." The pirates turned their heads. Neimor walked to them, a smile on his lips, watching the halfling on the rigging. Behind him stood his first mate, all seven feet and ebony skin of him.

"Captain, sir?" asked the boy. "Are all _pheriannath_ like that?"

Neimor shook his head. "Absolutely not, Davy." He turned to his first mate. "Admirable, is he not, Asouk?"

The man called Asouk glanced upward as if in weariness. The halfling, the wind billowing through his jumper, was shimmying up the top of the yardarm, making some sort of conversation with the albatross, whose wings were wider than the halfling was tall. A rumble came from Asouk's chest.

"Incorrigible," said Asouk. "Sir."

Neimor laughed. He looked around at his men. "And you all wanted me to kill him! I tell you truly: there is great virtue in the Shirefolk. Especially in one of this family."

"And who exactly is he, and who's his family, these Tooks?" said the Northerner. "Come on, Neimor. Tell us the truth about the _holbytla_. Who is he, truly?"

Neimor turned a dark glance upon the speaker. "He is my guest, Orren," he said evenly. "And as your captain's guest, I continue to expect him to be treated with courtesy worthy of the _Sword_."

Orren grumbled but touched an imaginary hat. "As you say, _captain_ sir."

Asouk gave the Northman a cursory glance as Orren walked away. "Trouble," he said under his breath to his captain.

"Orren has always been trouble," said Neimor. "But he wields a great bow and is a good raider."

"It's not his skill with the bow I speak of, but with the knife in the back."

Neimor nodded. "I know. Ever has he been restive about our chosen quarry." He glanced up at his first mate. "Does he have support?"

"Some," said Asouk. "It's what comes from not choosing more born Corsairs for your crew. This rag-tag of adventurers and wanderers from all corners of the Bay …"

"Such as yourself, my friend?" asked Neimor with a twinkle in his long and somber face. "Ah, if I wanted all born Corsairs for a crew, I would not be a renegade, would I? And my name would be toasted in Umbar, instead of spit into the wind. I fear our recent targets have only worsened our reputation in the city." He glanced up at a sudden movement. "By the Valar," he breathed. "I believe he's freed it!"

They all looked up, for with a startled squawk, the albatross flapped its wings. It shrieked, squirmed, and tried to take flight. "Now, now, there's no call for that," came a bright and lilting voice from above, and then the albatross found wind and flew.

Neimor smiled. "Incorrigible indeed," he murmured.

Asouk watched without comment, and saw the danger before anyone else did.

"_Razar!_" he shouted. "The rope!"

The cut rope had made a large loop around the yard next to the halfling's leg. As he moved, he tugged at it unexpectedly, and it unbalanced him. With a little yelp he fell.

"Pippin!" cried Neimor.

But instead of plummeting to the death, the halfling grabbed a halyard and cut it loose, rappelling safely down, Asouk waiting for him. The tall black man caught him. He was shaking from surprise, but his eyes were bright with exhilaration.

"Well!" said Pippin. "_That_ was fun!" He looked up at Asouk and beamed. The big man rumbled impassively and deposited him onto the deck.

* * *

It had been a month since Pippin had been captured by Neimor and his pirates, and he wasn't quite sure when he had stopped being a prisoner and started to be the captain's "guest", but it had happened. He was not allowed to enter the armory or the hold; during raids, two of which had taken place since he came on board, he was locked in his quarters, also known as the captain's library-closet; most distressing of all, he was not allowed to leave the ship. And he had not been returned Trollsbane. These were the conditions of his stay that reminded him he was not completely free.

On the other hand, he ate with whomever he wished, usually Neimor and Asouk, and otherwise had the run of the ship. The pirates had resented his presence, at first, but Pippin was nothing if not persistent in his belief he could win over anyone with enough effort. After all, he had failed only with his wife. By now, he was at least tolerated by most, and was fast befriending several.

Two of these were Davy, the Gondorin boy, and Bangshar the Easterling. He helped both with their duties on board ship, and Davy, who was young yet to go boarding, would keep Pippin company, talking with him through the closet door, reporting on what was going on. Davy was such a Hobbit-like nickname, Pippin asked him what his real name was; he was told it was Davirin. Davy often asked, "When are you going to join us, Pippin? You'd fit in on this ship! It's the greatest ship in the sea, and we do what we want!"

Pippin observed that he had killed about five of the crew during the taking of the _Seafoam_.

Davy shrugged. "The fight was fair. I hold no grudge. A Corsair should not."

Bangshar was skilled with languages and was teaching Pippin the speech of Near Harad, full of gutturals and sibilants, as well as his own speech. Bangshar said he came from east of the Sea of Rhun, where he lived with his family in a tent made of beaten felt and raised herds of horses. Pippin's only qualm about Bangshar was that he had a taste for the black cakes of poppy that Neimor took from the ships he plundered. Pippin had tried some, at Bangshar's urging, and had been quite sick, flinging the tip of the pipe from his mouth. "I think I'll stick to pipeweed," he said. Neimor disapproved of the cakes, but not as much as he hated the clear elixir.

Pippin wondered about that. He wondered much about his host, the tall, well-spoken _Dunadan_. He could not have been younger than forty, blood of Westernesse notwithstanding, and if he came from the Rangers of Arnor that meant he not only knew Aragorn, but had also counted him as his captain and chieftain of his people. He had such skill at navigation and seamanship that he could not be new to the sea; not even the twelve years since the War of the Ring could explain that. He asked Neimor about it a few times, but Neimor would not answer.

Davy had one story of Neimor. How he came on board.

"I come from Blackroot Vale," said Davy. "My father was a farmer and hunter in the hills of the White Mountains. When I was five years old, I awoke to a great commotion, shouting and gasps. I ran out of our house, and saw all the grown-ups were pointing at the hills between our vale and the mountains. I looked, and saw them lit, the seven beacons of the south. I was afraid, and ran to my father, but he was afraid too. 'The beacons,' he said, 'the beacons are lit.' I did not know what that meant, but the next day, Derufin son of the lord Duinhir came to our village, and my father and brother packed their bows and went away with him and many of the men. The women wept.

"They went to Minas Tirith, to heed the Steward's call to service: five hundred archers from Morthond, with Duinhir and his sons, Duilin and Derufin, and my father and brother. And none came back from the Pelennor."

After a pause, the boy spoke again. "My mother wed again several years ago, but my stepfather was cruel to me. I ran away, but did not know where to go or how to make my way in the world. I ended … I was in a shameful life in Pelargir." Pippin understood and his eyes filled with sympathy, looking at Davy's downy cheek. "Once, this man I … he was … I felt he was going to kill me. I ran from him and he followed me.

"Then out of the shadows came this tall man with a long black sword. He stepped between my assailant, and me and asked what was going on. The man, he … he said I belonged to him," Davy spat, "and I could not deny it. But Neimor, for the captain it was, he said he'd seen dogs better treated by their masters, and begone or he'd set his steel in him. They fought. The captain won.

"I didn't know what he wanted. I assumed he wanted …" Davy gulped and his cheeks colored. "I had fallen far. But, Pippin, he didn't! He took me to his ship, this ship, and I became a sailor, and a pirate, and a free Corsair! And I am a proud Corsair. I will die for him."

Bangshar did not know Davy's entire story, but he had one of his own.

"The Variags are a scourge to all the free Men of the East, Razar," he told Pippin. "They hunt men for slavery, for ransom, for sport. I was in the high meadow by our summer encampment with my sister when the Variags came. They stole us from our tents and our herds and threw us in their stinking wains." He took a puff of smoke. His eyes unfocused and he wandered in his memories. "For the Dark Lord, they said, for the Great Eye. A soldier for his armies, and a flower for his generals. Long was the journey, far from the steppes. I was eleven, my sister fourteen. She tried to comfort me, told me to be brave and never give up hope. I tried for a long time." He sighed. "But my sister was taken from me upon the borders of the Black Land and I was taken to a fort to become a soldier for the Eye's wars with the West.

"Years I lived in that place, learning only to hate and kill, to make others suffer as I suffered. I was taught to hate the West and its peoples, and to kill them and destroy their works whenever I could. I was subject to the Eye, and I saw the Eye in my mind, and after the training I saw _only_ through the Eye.

"You know what happened. A king returned to Gondor; the hand of the gods overthrew the Dark Tower; all I had lived for and fought for was cast into ruin. I fled the battle and ran; I don't know how long, nor why I was not hunted down by the Westerners."

Pippin was stunned. "_You_ were at the Black Gate?" He didn't dare say he was there as well, on the other side.

Bangshar nodded. "We outnumbered the Westerners twenty to one," he said dazedly, "and yet they triumphed. The gods were with them; they sent a savior into the Black Land, who defeated the Dark Lord and threw down the Tower. Or so it was said. I found myself free of the Eye, with my own sight again, to do as I willed; I chose to run."

He put down the mouthpiece of his pipe and rubbed his eyes. "Enough," he said. He looked at Pippin, his eyes beginning to focus. "I found my way to Umbar. I sought work as an assassin and knife-for-hire. I truly wished to find a way to die, but had not the courage to end my life myself, so I sought the most dangerous places, picked fights with the most dangerous people. So one night, drunk and mad on _this_"—he held up his smoking pipe—"I picked a fight with a tall man with a black sword."

"The captain," Pippin guessed.

Bangshar smiled. "'Mercy,' he said. He called it mercy. For a while, I called it torture. But then I discovered I had a place here, and a leader who would not torment his followers, only expect their best. I found a place to use the ways of death taught me in Mordor in the service of my captain. I have collected enough treasure in Neimor's service to be able to retire one of these years. I will find my sister, or her grave. And then I shall buy a stallion and a mare of Rohan and go home."

* * *

"You know," said Pippin to Neimor as they had one of their dinners, "I've been hearing a lot about you from your crew."

"Have you," said Neimor.

"Davy and Bangshar."

"Ah. Good men. Anyone else? Orren, perhaps?"

"Orren dislikes me, and I him."

"Indeed. I can't say I blame you." Neimor took a sip of wine. "What do they say about me?"

"You're not such a scoundrel."

Neimor smiled. "Aren't I?"

Pippin shook his head. "Under all that swagger and ice, under those black clothes and ruthless raids, under that funny little beard," he said, and Neimor glared, "you're still a Ranger, aren't you."

Neimor's lips curled into a tiny smile. He pulled another small piece of meat onto his plate and cut it with his knife. "Whatever entertains you, Peregrin," he replied. "For what it is worth, let me tell you something: I am a scoundrel indeed. I have slain in cold blood without a thought. I raid and pillage and steal for my own wealth and for the satisfaction of the hunt. I am a pirate, not a hero. You must know the difference."

Pippin picked up a fat biscuit, his fifth of the night. "Yes," he said. "I also know every ship you've struck since I've been here, you've relieved of another shipment of narcotics." He stuffed the biscuit into his mouth whole. "I can tell a hero when I see one."

"So can I," murmured the captain later, glancing at the sleeping hobbit sprawled on the hammock in a corner of his library.

* * *

2.

* * *

The _Sword_ stalked her prey, a fat, slow merchantman laden with spices and goods from the Grey Mountains of the South, bound for Anfalas. Neimor had gazed at her through his glass, standing athwart the spars of the bowsprit, Asouk behind him, wordless and still. Other pirates sharpened their flambards and swords, their stilettos and cutlasses. Bangshar practiced with his scimitar. Orren strung his bow. "I once heard a man brought down a dragon with a bow like this," he boasted. Davy held himself over the water from the shrouds of the mainsail, his face dark with anticipation.

"I am to be part of the boarding party tonight, Pippin," he explained eagerly as he escorted Pippin to the library-closet, which would be his cell once more for the night of the raid. "It is my first time."

"I'm happy for you," Pippin said in resignation. "But, Davy …"

The lad paused at the doorjamb.

"If you can," Pippin asked, "let them live, hey?"

Solemnly Davy nodded. "I will try to avoid outright murder," he said. Then he smiled. "But I am a Corsair, and won't be anything other."

Pippin smiled as the door shut and locked.

"Fine," he said.

Neimor strode out of his quarters, robed in his black cloak and the sword for which his ship was named strapped to his belt.

He climbed up a step. "Corsairs of the _Sword_!" he cried. "We seek treasure tonight!"

"Aye!" shouted the pirates of the boarding party, a hundred strong.

"There she is, my lads!" said Neimor, pointing at the lights of the merchantman. "Heavy with cinnamon and cardamom for the tables of Gondor; and some of those medicines I've been feeding the fish," he added with a wink. "It shall be ours!"

"Aye!"

Neimor raised his voice. "For whom do you sail?"

_"No one!"_

"For whom do you plunder?"

_"No one!"_

"What tower claims your allegiance?"

_"No one!"_

A dark smile twisted Orren's lips.

Neimor drew his sword and it was black in the night.

"Who is your captain?" he exulted.

"_Neimor!_"

"Master Asouk!" Neimor shouted. He pointed his sword to the light on the sea.

"Set a course for interception," he said, wrapping the black silk scarf around his face, obscuring his fell smile.

* * *

Pippin listened and shook his head.

"I get myself into the most unusual situations for a hobbit," he observed. "I wonder if I've passed old Bilbo for adventuring by now? Not that the war counts. No; I'll never count that as a mere adventure." He sat on a bench, his hands fidgeting. He realized it, and stared at them for a while. Had he not sworn to avenge the crew of the _Seafoam_? Had they all faded so from his mind? He had spent a week on the fat, simple ship. He had lived with the pirates for a month.

But Cellas …

He heard shouts, now; the _Sword_ was closing in on the merchantman. Pippin remembered what she looked like: her lean lines cutting out of the darkness like a ghost, her black sails stark against the night, pennants streaming, a flurry of deadly arrows from her bowmen raking the unfortunate's hull, killing or wounding all on her deck for the first of the boarding party to swing on.

Pippin groaned through his teeth. He could sit still no longer! He wanted to be out there, fighting!

On whose side?

He looked around. "So what shall it be tonight, then?" he asked himself. Something to read, he decided, before trying to sleep. Pippin had been dreaming again, sometimes of Diamond, sometimes of another girl entirely, a woman of Men; sometimes they were the same individual, and this vision rode upon Swallow through a desert, towards a light like a star …

He climbed up on a chair and brought down the second volume in the work on circumnavigation he had begun. Apparently the world was round.

He had just settled into the book when he realized all had gone silent. The sounds of boarding had ended, and now there was nothing but silence to hear through the walls of the cabin.

Disturbed, Pippin closed the book and went to the window, to see what he could see. The _Sword_ held the merchantman, hull to hull. The boarding planks straddled the gunwales. The ships were bound together by grapples. Apart from that, he could see little else.

Then he heard what seemed like Neimor's voice, clear and cold, answered by another voice, from within the merchant ship. Pippin examined the merchant ship more closely. It was much bigger than the _Seafoam_ had been, as long as the _Sword_, and broader, and deeper; it must have housed vast spaces, comparatively, in its cabins and holds. It was so close Pippin could actually make out faces and movement through the windows of the other ship. Many faces. Too many faces. Who are those …?

Pippin's eyes grew wide. _Corsair marines._

He had to warn Neimor. He tried to open the window, clawing at it, twisting its latch, then finally grabbing a chair and swinging at the glass as hard as he could. It broke, and with the heavy books he knocked it open.

The captain was on deck, with the bewildered boarding party, speaking to someone on the quarterdeck of the merchantman.

"Neimor!" Pippin cried. "_It's a trap!_"

Neimor looked his way, and then the hidden Corsairs charged.

An arrow struck the sill of the porthole, missing Pippin by hairs. Pippin looked up, for the arrow had come from above. He saw a flash of a grizzled face and yellow beard. Orren!

Pippin ducked back inside. He grabbed the chair again and swung it against the door. It chipped. He swung it again, and it chipped some more. He grunted and let out a cry and flung the chair with all his might against the door, and a great crack appeared in the wood. Pippin stepped back and then went to throw his shoulder against it, when it opened. He crashed into a hard, dark body.

"Asouk!" Pippin gasped. "The captain! He's in danger!"

"I know," said Asouk. For a moment Pippin's heart misgave him.

Then a bundle was thrust into his arms. "Your sword and cloak," said Asouk, and Pippin indeed held Trollsbane in its scabbard and belt, wrapped in his old elven cloak. Pippin gaped, his eyes wide.

"Come!" said Asouk, and Pippin's sharp face became grim. He buckled his belt and drew his sword and followed Asouk into the fray, donning the cloak so that he seemed one with the shadows beyond the firelight.

* * *

A force equal to the _Sword_'s crew had lurked hidden in the merchantman, comprised of marines and raiders from Umbar itself, come to take the renegade ship. The Umbar raiders and Neimor's pirates clashed swords upon the deck of the merchantman, the battle beginning to spill over to the _Sword_.

Then the rest of the trap unfolded: a good portion of the remainder of the _Sword_ crew, and some of the raiders with Neimor, switched sides. The mutinous Corsairs joined their Umbar compatriots and soon Neimor and his faithful men were outnumbered.

Pippin ran down the _Sword_, hacking at attackers who came forth. It was difficult at first to recognize friend from foe, but he guessed that "friends" were Neimor and those of his crew now gathering around him upon the merchantman's deck. Pippin needed to join them.

He leapt up onto the twelve-man boat lashed upon the deck between the main and fore masts, to get a better view. He saw, upon the _Sword_, some of the faithful crew fighting with a great mass of those who had stayed behind. Asouk towered among them, his shaven head and mighty shoulders above the fray like a mountain rising from the sea. The man of Far Harad swung a great halberd, cleaving through a mass of mutineers, bellowing. On the merchantman, Pippin saw Neimor's black blade flashing through the torchlight and lamplight. He saw Bangshar among a dozen other of the captain's defenders, spinning and striking like a wind made flesh. But where was Davy?

There—he glimpsed the boy's face, fighting to get back to his captain.

An arrow whistled past his face. Pippin dropped into the boat for cover. Orren. He could hear the bass thrum of the Northman's bow. The mutineer stood upon the poop deck, his back to the mizzen, raining ruin where he could with a quiver full of arrows.

A sudden heat pulsed from somewhere in Pippin's gut through his chest and into his eyes. He felt himself smile, but there was nothing funny about what was going on.

Pippin jumped out of the boat back onto the deck. He sheathed Trollsbane and pulled out his dagger. He made for the starboard halyards that he had spliced that afternoon, and grabbed it with his left hand, wrapping it around his fist. With his dagger, he cut the rope, above the splice he had made, and flew to the top of the mainmast as the mainsail unfurled.

_"Whooooooooooooooooah …!"_

At the maintop he kicked on the crow's nest, then swung for the mizzen and the man with the bow.

He let go and crashed into the astounded Orren, staggering the man and kicking the bow out of his hands. Pippin landed awkwardly on his side. "Humph!" He heard heavy footsteps coming at him, and pulled out his sword in time to parry the blow of Orren's cutlass.

Orren roared and lunged again, his blow landing on the planking as Pippin rolled aside and got to his feet. Pippin stood with Trollsbane at his side, daring Orren to attack again.

Orren grinned, baring his teeth. "Pest of a _holbytla! _You pick the wrong friends. The Ranger is done. He and his high-minded buccaneering don't have a place on this ship!" He was trying to close in on Pippin, but Pippin kept his eyes on him, and matched him step for step. "The lords of Umbar paid me well to bring down the Black Sword, but they need have not! I would have done it for the ship alone! Now I, Orren, who they said did not deserve a place in the meanest hall of Laketown, I shall be a captain of the—"

"Oh _I_ don't care." Pippin swung at him.

Orren parried, and lunged down at Pippin, but he had no schooling in swords. For all Orren's superior size, he had little idea of doing anything other than hack and stab, and Pippin took advantage.

Orren pulled back and made to run. Pippin chased him. Orren climbed up the shrouds of the mizzen, but Pippin easily overtook him, and they fought one-handed, blades clashing, along the third of the _Sword_'s mighty sails. The tip of Orren's cutlass caught Pippin across the left forearm, slicing skin but not flesh. The man laughed.

Pippin scowled, and then with a stroke cut the shrouds. Orren roared as he fell to the deck.

He was slow to pick himself up. Pippin climbed down, glancing at the rest of the affray. Neimor and his faithful were somehow winning back, at least to the _Sword_, but they were still pinned between the forces of Umbar and the mutineers. Pippin saw Bangshar, Davy, and Asouk still up, and holding their own. Good.

Neimor had leapt up onto a capstan and was rallying his people to him. "Have at them, lads!" he shouted, almost laughing. Seeing him, the mutineers on the _Sword_ boarded the merchantman in droves.

A dull blow caught Pippin on the right shoulder and he fell, dropping Trollsbane. Orren stood above him with a cudgel. He dodged the second blow and lunged for his sword with his left hand. But Orren smashed downward on his hand. Pippin heard something pop and he couldn't stifle a cry of agony.

"Pippin!" he heard, far down the ship, Davy's voice.

Orren heard it too. He stood over Pippin, straddling him. "I think the punk is sweet on you," he sneered. "Just like that sailor boy I offed the day we took you on board—which is what Neimor should have done with you!"

"You?" gasped Pippin. "_You_ killed Cellas?"

Orren laughed and swung his cudgel in reply.

Pippin abruptly pulled his legs up between the pirate's legs and kicked with all his might.

Orren howled in torment. Pippin snatched up Trollsbane and scrambled to his feet. He turned on the traitor, who was bent over and raving, wrapped his injured hand on Trollsbane's hilt, and dropped its edge upon the mutinous pirate's neck.

Orren's body crumpled. His head rolled a few feet away.

Pippin swallowed. He was not going to be sick. Forgetting to wipe his sword, he ran back to the main deck.

* * *

Pippin fought his way to the other ship and to Neimor's side.

"I see Master Asouk came for you," noted Neimor at the sight of him.

"Orren too," Pippin said to the captain. "Unfortunately, he led the mutineers."

"I assumed as much," Neimor said. "But he surprised me with the speed of his plan. Where is he know?"

"Dead," Pippin said. Neimor beheld Trollsbane in Pippin's hands, still streaked with blood. He nodded.

"We must drive as many of our mutineers upon the merchantman," said the captain. "But you, Pippin, go back to the ship and make ready to sail! We must be ready to push off at my word!"

"What's going on?"

"We found barrels of blasting powder in their hold," explained Neimor. "Bangshar's rigging it now."

"Blasting powder?"

"Designed in Isengard, perfected in Umbar."

Pippin's eyes widened.

"Go, Peregrin!" urged Neimor. "Davy!" he shouted to the boy, standing amidst the fallen bodies of his enemies. "Go with Pippin!"

"Aye, sir!"

Davy and Pippin pushed through the battle, fighting as they went, back onto the clearing deck of the _Sword_. "Neimor says to make ready to sail at once!" Pippin cried, hurrying to the mainmast.

"Aye!" They went from mast to mast, setting the sails, tugging the yards, working through the injuries suffered by the ship and its parts during the battle—and their own injuries, for already Pippin's left hand was swelling. Sooner than it seemed to take, they were as ready as they could be.

Davy gasped as he saw Orren's beheaded body by the mizzen.

Pippin hurried past him. "My fault."

Davy nodded. "Good riddance."

Neimor appeared upon the other ship. "Shove off!" he thundered. His faithful men hurried onto the _Sword_, slaying those mutineers and attackers still on board, remove the boarding planks and cutting the grappling lines. Above them all sang Neimor's orders. "Shove off I say!"

Bangshar leapt over, coming to Pippin and Davy. "It's done," he said. "And I made sure the oil and grease would catch."

"You set it on fire?" asked Pippin.

The Easterling grinned. "You'll see!"

Asouk led the strongest of Neimor's men in pushing off from the other vessel. "Captain!"

Neimor sheathed his sword. With a flying leap, he vaulted over the sea and onto the deck of his ship.

"Make sail! Man the oars!" he ordered. "Get us as far away from that ship as possible!" He ran to the wheel, Pippin at his heels, Davy and Bangshar following.

Black oars sprouted from the sides of the _Sword_. Neimor turned the rudder. The wind began to fill the sails. Pippin watched as the _Sword _started to slip away from the merchantman and its crowded deck.

Arrows continued to fly between the ships. "Pippin!" cried Davy, pushing Pippin aside.

"Davy!" Pippin saw the shaft of the arrow protruding from his friend. _No, no, not again!_ "Davy!"

Davy sat up, wincing. "I … I'm all right," he said uncertainly.

Bangshar knelt and then with a firm tug pulled the arrow out of Davy's back. He felt the wound. "Ricochet," he said. "Against the shoulder blade. You'll live."

"How far do we have to get?" Pippin demanded, pressing against Davy's wound with his healthy hand.

Neimor looked at Bangshar.

"Two ships' length," the Easterling said.

Pippin saw they were near that now. "And when will—"

The other ship exploded. Fire roiled from its hold, sundering its deck and starboard side, collapsing its mainmast and incinerating all in its path. The sea rushed into the wound in the ship's hull, and steam howled through its spaces. The falling mast crumpled down, crashing upon the deck and catching flame. All the sails were aflame as, crippled, the ship began to list and capsize.

A cheer came from the survivors on the _Sword_.

"Enough," said Neimor. "The battle is over, but the chase is begun. Our friends in the Black Fleet are now hunting us. Repair the ship as quickly as you can, and the masts and sails first of all!"

He looked down. "Pippin," he said. "You are injured." He motioned for Bangshar to take the helm.

Then Pippin saw a pirate, a mutineer, sneaking from the stair, a spike ready to be thrown at Neimor. "Look out!" he shouted, and threw himself in the mutineer's path. The man stumbled and fell, and Asouk ran him through into the deck with the spike on the tip of his halberd.

Neimor and Bangshar pulled the body off Pippin. "You saved my life," said Neimor.

Pippin winced and sat up. Everything was sore now. His hand was killing him. He loathed to imagine how he'd feel tomorrow.

"That makes us even, then," said Pippin. "You spare my life, I save yours. We're square."

Neimor nodded.

Pippin winced. He pressed his hand to his stomach and groaned. They gathered around him, concerned.

He looked up in distress. "I missed supper."

* * *

3.

* * *

Three ships of the Black Fleet sailed in pursuit of the renegade and his surviving crew. Their masters, enraged by Neimor's killing of Sartanukil, had set out a formal charge against him. Three hundred were lost in the destruction of the decoy ship. The fleetest ships of Umbar sailed against the _Sword_.

Neimor dared them to follow. He set his course for the open sea, where the swift raiders of the Corsairs dared not follow. His compass set west south-west, he sailed into Belegaer, into the stormswept waters of the Sundering Sea.

Pippin, his left hand bandaged tight, his left forearm itchy from the stitches, and his right hand grasping a leg of fowl, visited the captain in his room.

"I hear we're running from danger into danger," he said.

"That is accurate," said Neimor. "We make for the isle of Meneltarma."

"Meneltarma?" Pippin repeated, thinking. "Wasn't that the name of the mountain of Númenor?"

"It is the same," said Neimor. "The last tip of the foundered land to rise above the waves."

"Is that wise?" asked Pippin in surprise.

Neimor sighed. "They dare not follow us so far, five hundred leagues across open sea."

"But the books say the wrath of the Valar still haunts that sea," Pippin pointed out.

Neimor eyed him. "How much lore of travel do you keep in that little head?"

"Perhaps I spend too much time locked in libraries."

"I shall have Asouk find you a hammock. Were you always so studious?"

"Not at all. I was a carefree and thoughtless youngster. Now I'm just thoughtless, or so folk say."

"And what so altered you?"

"What else? The war." Pippin's mood darkened. "Hasn't it everyone? Davy lost his father and brother, and his simple life in the hills. Sauron filled Bangshar's head with hate, and when Sauron fell, his life lost purpose. He thinks my cousin was a … _savior_, sent by the Valar to fight Sauron."

"Was he not?"

"Frodo was a silly old hobbit," Pippin snapped. "He liked to daydream, and watch the sky, and take long walks by himself. He told me bedtime stories, and stole councilor pudding with me, and climbed after me when I went looking for bird's nests and couldn't get back down. I know he had his dreams of adventure, but instead he seemed content for long and quiet life as a confirmed bachelor, helping his spoiled and irresponsible little cousins survive into the respectable roles prepared for them. Peace and quiet with his books and his home and his faithful friend.

"Instead … he's gone. He walked into darkness and death, and we followed him as far as we could, and for all Merry and I went through, for all Sam went through, it was Frodo, my silly old cousin Frodo, who had to pay the price. He's gone, and I miss him. He was no savior. He was a sacrifice." He felt tears threatening, but he blinked them back, and in defiance tore off another mouthful of cold chicken.

Neimor spoke. "I served long under the son of Arathorn," he said, "and though I care not now for his guise as the King Elessar, I remember well the fearless Ranger Men called Strider. I know he pledged to protect your cousin, and regardless of what he has become—for a king so great should be named an emperor, and empire is ever the ill of the West—the captain I knew, knew honor when he saw it. Your cousin chose the burden and submitted as the sacrifice. That makes him savior enough for me. Your cousin bears no blame for the wounds of war that still scar the hearts of Men," he said. His grey eyes met Pippin's. "Or hobbits."

He stood, and held up a chart. "We keep our course, come rain or heavy sea," he said. "Cheer up, Peregrin. In two weeks' time, you will be the first hobbit to set foot upon the last remnant of Númenor."

Pippin ate. "Bully for me."


	5. The Sundering Sea

_Part V_

**The Sundering Sea**

* * *

During the long flight from the coast into Belegaer, the dawnwatch would find Pippin standing by the _Sword_'s prow, letting the cool draught of speeding air fill his face. The pirates disliked the dawnwatch. It was something navy would do, not Corsairs. But they did it, for the ones who were left loved their captain, and for six days danger pursued them.

On the seventh day the last of the pursuing ships fell back and did not show herself above the eastern horizon, and the crew of the _Sword_ felt they were well and truly free. Then some broached the idea of turning back, not to Umbar, but to the friendly coast of the mountains of Near Harad. Neimor said no.

"Those coasts will not be friendly for some time yet," he told them. "And you know as well as I do we need to reprovision and repair. Unless you wish to do both in the middle of the open sea, we will need a haven, and Meneltarma will have one."

The pirates grumbled, but having survived a mutiny they knew not to question the captain.

"It's just unlucky, is all," said the old grey-bearded pirate. "That isle's part of the Downfallen, and it's all of it cursed."

Pippin broached the same thought in private, but Neimor was firm.

"I cannot go sailing to places I know will not be hospitable," he said. "The Downfall is nearer to legend than history. All we seek is a safe harbor for a week. Nothing more."

"And then what?" said Pippin.

Neimor's eyes narrowed at him. "I know what you would ask of me," he said. "But I am not an explorer. This ship will not be your vehicle."

"You deprived me of my steed when you took me prisoner," Pippin pointed out. "Haven't I been a worthwhile guest? It's not as if you could go back to the Bay of Belfalas anytime soon. Why not wander?" But Neimor continued to refuse.

So Pippin went about his duties, manning the evening watch upon the crow's nest, helping with weaving, splicing, and coiling the ropes, even holystoning the decks. He did not mind.

The dawnwatch, though, he kept himself. He slept early and woke earlier still. The closer they came to the seas over Atalantë, the more vivid grew his dreams.

* * *

One morning he went to his usual post to find Asouk standing there alone. The first mate seemed lost in many thoughts. Pippin decided not to bother him.

"Razar," said Asouk. "Do not let me keep you from your morning walk."

"It's not really a walk," said Pippin, joining the first mate. "More like a stroll and then a long, blank stare. I'm quite good at it."

"You jest when troubled," Asouk observed.

Pippin peered at him, and then nodded. "Yes," he admitted. "Most of my people do, but perhaps I do more than most."

"My people enjoy laughter," said Asouk, and he fell silent again.

Pippin looked up at Neimor's first mate. Asouk was taller than any Big Person he had ever seen, even taller than the Dúnedain, taller than elves. His skin was a deep purple brown, and it seemed luminous in sunlight or torchlight, and cleaved onto a powerful yet long-limbed frame. He had no hair upon his head and his cheeks were scarred with patterns whose meaning Pippin did not know. His ears were pierced in many places, as was his nose, and from his neck hung numerous necklaces of everything from gold to the fingernails of slain enemies. One of them was a long ivory tooth. Davy said he heard it came from a cave lion Asouk had killed to become a man. Pippin barely had an idea of what a lion was.

"Tell me of your people," Pippin asked.

Asouk looked down at him. Then the giant of a man smiled. His teeth were white and clean. "And you will tell me of yours."

Pippin nodded. "It's a bargain."

The people of Asouk's nation were hunters and herders of cattle. They came from the sun-drenched grasslands of Far Harad, south of the Great Desert, beneath of the girdle of Arda that was the waist of the round world. Upon those grasslands, Asouk said, vast herds of creatures innumerable grazed from season to season: oxen with black hide and horns like the sickle Moon; zorse with tails like bottlebrushes, and a coat of black and white stripes; antelope in sizes and shapes from house cats to horses; and other creatures, boulder-like dicorns and pards and hunting pards and cave lions and oliphaunts. Through it all ran a wide, slow river, brown with silt, that emptied into Belegaer through a hot, steaming forest.

Asouk's tribe lived in a large village of spacious huts constructed of straw, packed with mud, and painted with the white ash deposited in ages past by the two mountains who dominated the plains. They were called the Two Mothers, said Asouk, the Elder and the Younger, and the Younger every other lifetime of men would spout ash and smoke.

The Elder never gave utterance anymore, and her head was always capped in white ice even beneath the baking sun. From the snows on her far side came a laughing stream that became a crushing torrent that emptied over a mighty waterfall into a lake whose banks seemed beyond reach frequented by birds of every possible feather and wing. From the lake, said Asouk, came the Longest River, which flowed north for a thousand leagues and more through the Great Desert, and emptied by many mouths into the eastern sea by the Straits of the World.

Asouk had left his home to seek the life of a wanderer. His father was king of their village and Asouk had been the only child of the wife his father loved most. But there were sons before him, by his father's first wife, and Asouk had refused to settle for the lot of a small hut and a tithe of his father's cattle. He wished to wander the wide lands, see all there was for a man to see beneath the sun. His brothers were also worshippers of the Eye, and Asouk was not.

So he left. He wandered through many lands, until he was captured by warriors of a strange tribe, and taken prisoner to their villages by the sea. Corsairs bought slaves from them, and so Asouk was sold to a Corsair ship, which brought him to Umbar. He learned many things in his time of bondage.

Neimor had come to Umbar shortly after the War of the Ring. He was already a mariner of reputation, or so he seemed to Asouk and his master, the owner and captain of the _Sword_, though it wasn't called that yet. Neimor bought the ship, and won it when the previous owner thought better of the price and tried to have Neimor killed. Neimor instead killed him, and took the ship and all its contents, including Asouk. Neimor said he had no use for a slave. Asouk understood and prepared himself to be sold to another master. Instead Neimor freed him. How ironic that the very act of giving him his freedom had bound Asouk in loyalty to Neimor ever since.

"So you see, Razar," finished Asouk, "I left home to seek my fortune in the wider world, and here I am, through many misadventures a man in full, who has seen more than he could ever have dreamed as a cowherd on the Plains of the Sun." Then he sighed. "Yet as I grow older, I come to miss those plains, all the same."

"It seems we're a lot alike," Pippin told him.

"Are we?"

Pippin nodded, and told him his own story. "I am the youngest of four children," he said, "and the only son. My father was a farmer …"

* * *

2.

* * *

Neimor frowned at the chart in his hands, and then peered again through his glass. He then raised an instrument to his eye and regarded the height of the sun. After this he consulted the chart again, then threw it on the deck.

"Hang the charts," he said. "We continue for the isle."

The pirates grumbled, but obeyed. Pippin picked up the map and studied it, his eyes drawn first to the star-shaped point of Meneltarma, and then to the landmass at the margin, straddling the Girdle of Arda and extending far south. Would he ever get there? And what use would it be to go there? Lions, pards, unicorns and oliphaunts. He had lost Swallow so long before. He could not walk those plains.

Frodo walked to Mordor.

But he wasn't Frodo.

He had no quest.

So they voyaged on. Pippin went about the duties Neimor had assigned him. He was lookout for the duration of the evening watch each day. He climbed to the crow's nest at the top of the mainmast, little less than halfway between the slanted arms of the mighty main yard, and stood there for three hours each evening as the sun sank into the west and the stars appeared.

By the eighth day of their journey they had steered into a current of swift water a deeper, darker blue than the rest of the sea. Neimor said it would take them southwest at three knots over sail. Pippin came to discern the savor of swells that came from distant storms, and the bright-topped whitecaps churned by the brisk midday breeze.

They passed into calmer waters as clear and evident a background as the noonday sky. Here in these waters far from shore he saw shoals of blue fish larger than he was; sharks with their pointed snouts and fins like the _Sword_'s sails; fighting fish with beaks like swords and wings on their backs; and sea turtles, lazing on the surface before proceeding to hunt for jellyfish.

He saw dolphins, a different race than those of Belfalas, black-snouted and black-backed with their eyes ringed in white as if they wore the dwarven spectacles sold at the Farthings Fair. He saw, several times, tall torrents of water spurting from the surface of the sea, full of rush and blow like the fountains of hidden springs. When he pointed them out the first time, the pirates had been excited.

"Whales! Whales!" they called out, and damned their stars they had not the time to hunt one.

Pippin did not know what a whale was, and paid no heed to the threat of hunting, until well into the third week of the voyage he chanced upon them again as he manned the crow's nest. It was early in the evening and the sun was setting behind a bank of mist that had been gathering as they sailed further West. They had turned northwest with a southeasterly wind blowing them toward their destination. To port, the sea rolled with swells from a distant storm, and in the sky above the setting Sun, Eärendil sparkled above all other stars.

To starboard, the waters seemed strangely disturbed. He saw, perhaps a league or so distant, objects surging through the surface of the water, and discerned the fluttering of thousands of tiny fish. Then one of the dark shapes resolved into an immense pair of jaws, toothless, deeply ribbed, rising through the mass of trapped fish to engulf hundreds of them in a single gulp. They did not stop there, but were followed by a vast head, large as a house; and then the head dipped back down, snout first, and in a curve Pippin beheld the full length of the creature with its smooth skin of blue and grey as it fed upon the anchovies and fingerlings of mackerel that bloomed in the summer oceans. It was a leviathan, largest of whales, surpassing others of its kind found in later years, even before the greed of Men wiped from the seas an entire generation of the oldest and largest of the breed.

The sight of the one hunting was enough. But then Pippin saw from the depths another leviathan rise and pass within a few yards of the _Sword_. The pirates all hollered and made commotion, and several brandished spears.

"No!" cried Pippin, overcome with some emotion he did not understand. "No! Don't trouble it! Don't hurt it!" And before his eyes he saw a baby, a calf, slip out from beneath its mother's fin. It was the size of the longboat.

The mother rolled sideways, and Pippin saw an eye as large as half his body regard him with clear and conscious regard. He smiled faintly, a tremor running like lightning from the hair on his head to the hair on his feet, until his smile vanished and awe overwhelmed him completely.

The leviathan dove, its calf with it. It gave a twitch of its flukes, wide as the ship; and then it vanished. But it was all Pippin could do not to believe it had seen him, and that it had waved thank you.

* * *

So passed the days until one evening, at the coming of dusk, Pippin was sitting on the crow's nest, idly singing a sad song he had made up to amuse himself.

_A light will shine upon the farther shore  
A light will keep you near forevermore  
And though night will fall I will not falter too  
Take these gifts once given me with you_

_Go on and cry, my friends,  
For not all tears are evil;  
A sky won't break  
From all the stars inside it!_

_And no ring or precious thing  
Will keep me far from you  
This light will shine for you  
My friends …_

Eärendil. Pippin smiled as he looked upon the Evening Star. "Hello," he said to Elrond's sire. "Lovely evening out here in the trackless wilderness, isn't it? How did you ever manage it?" _There's a Man in a ship with a Silmaril on his brow._

He laughed at the old doggerel, then saw beneath the Star against the bank of mist and the fire of the vanished sun, a peak like a five-horned crown, rising above the sea.

He struck the gong. "Land!" he cried. "I see land!"

* * *

3.

* * *

Pippin stared at the jagged stone of the crest behind the beach, wreathed in the ever-present mist.

"You've been staring holes in the mountain for three days," said Bangshar, coming up behind him.

Pippin looked up at the Easterling and smiled. "How go the repairs?"

Bangshar pointed down the beach. Some of the crew were stacking fresh-milled planks and spars. Others were sorting through the fruits and herbs they had collected from the forests. Out in the deep water by a promontory of dark rock, the _Sword_ echoed with the pummeling of hammers. "We should be done within the day."

Pippin squinted exaggeratedly. He saw Asouk walking by. "Would've gone faster if you'd let me help," he said so the first mate would hear.

Asouk did. "You helped enough the first day."

Bangshar laughed. "Yes indeed. Just how many sharks did you want to catch for our table?"

Pippin puffed his chest out. "I wanted a swim."

"You wanted to get on land so badly after nearly two months at sea that you were ready to slay every shark, sea snake, shrimp, or sponge that tried to stop you," said Neimor, sauntering to join them. "Peace, Peregrin," he said. "None doubt your ability or skill. But this is physical work, and frankly, we are all larger than you."

Pippin shrugged. "Fine. I've been quite busy myself."

"I know. Thank you again, by the way, for bringing Davirin with you on your exploration of the island."

"Well, he's a very nice boy," said Pippin. "And I needed his long legs when we ran into that deer. And away from it. That _was_ a deer, right?"

"I think so," said Neimor. "Though of a kind unknown on eastern shores. No doubt its race has spent all these thousands of years marooned on this isle. I have a team hunting for them now. Fresh venison would be a welcome feast, wouldn't you say?"

Pippin pulled a fruit out of his pocket, its thick purple rind concealing five soft pits enclosed in clear, custard-like flesh that reminded him of a union of apples, plums, and milk. "I've been quite enjoying the rest of the produce as well," he said. He glanced again at the summit of the peak. "Though there's part of the island I have yet to see."

"In that case, you should go now," said Neimor. He gestured to the pervading milky calm over sky and sea. "The storm from the south we sighted shows signs of passing here. I have heard tales of the power of these warm-water tempests."

"They are strong," Asouk agreed. "They rise from rain clouds above the jungles of the south and grow in strength over the waters of the girdling seas and the current we rode here."

"If, or when, it comes," Neimor said, "I want to take the ship to open water." He looked down at Pippin. "Well, then. That is your guide. When the clouds gather and the wind lifts, you must head back to this beach. I may set sail without you."

"You wouldn't dare," Pippin said, though he suspected Neimor would.

Asouk, Bangshar and Davy asked to accompany Pippin. "Very well," said Neimor. To Asouk he added privately, "Keep our little shipmate out of trouble. I have grown fond of him." Asouk nodded.

They prepared for a short hike. Davy brought a haversack in which to store anything they collected. Bangshar distributed long, thick-bladed knives for hacking through tangled underbrush; the forest and woods had proven difficult in many places. Pippin brought his sword and dagger and, of course, his elven cloak.

"So," said Asouk. He motioned to Pippin. "Lead on, Razar."

Pippin looked up again at the sheer cliffs. A grin spread across his sharp features, and his eyes gleamed with recklessness. Without a word, he went, and the others followed.

They walked up from the beach into the forest. The woods were quiet but for the calls of many birds. Dim sunlight filtered through the mist and shade, settling upon unfamiliar plants and flowers. Pippin moved easily through the underbrush with woodcraft of which his far-off ancestors, whose blood by some accident or design ran nearly true in him, would have been proud. Asouk did the same. Bangshar hacked through thickets with his knife. Davy cautiously followed.

They hiked up the rumpled slope of the isle for most of the morning, making their way in a spiraling course from the coast toward the mountainous heart of the island. Thus they reached the face of the ridge at noon.

Pippin looked up again. He could pick out numerous handholds and ledges across what had seemed a steep, almost sheer rock face.

He unstrapped his belt and slung it from his shoulder across his chest so that Trollsbane and its scabbard were upon his back. "I'm climbing," he announced.

His companions regarded him with expressions ranging from doubt to incredulity.

"There must be an easier way," Bangshar said.

"We cannot follow you up that rock face," Asouk stated.

"If we had ropes, and pitons …" Davy, the child of the dales of the White Mountains, thought aloud.

"Razar …" Asouk sighed. Pippin was already scrambling up the mountain.

Within a few minutes Pippin was high enough to see over the forest. He paused and looked around. They had come but half a league from the beach; the rolling terrain and thick forest had slowed their pace. The sea was shrouded in haze, but to the southwest, mare's tails were scudding across the sky, followed by grey, and then black, clouds. A storm indeed.

Towards the west he saw where the rocks were lower. He pointed.

"There's a little fall or scree not a quarter of a mile to the west," he yelled. "You Big Folk go down there and try and keep up!" He beamed and then continued his climb.

It was little over a hundred feet to the top. Pippin, with a few breaks for bites of the fruit in his pocket, made the summit in good time.

The rock face he had climbed was the southern ridge of what had once been a circular crest concealing a foggy hollow. The tallest portions of the crest were upon the north and east, three hundred feet easily above the hillside. To the west, a flood, or centuries of steady wear, had opened a gully in the encircling stone.

The wind buffeted him. It was coming from the south, and Pippin espied the harbingers of heavy weather coming their way. He had trouble keeping his balance. He knew he should start making his way down, but he decided to turn around and take in the view a little longer. What could be the harm?

The wind caught his cloak and blew him off the ridgeline.

It was half the distance from the crest to the floor of the hollow than it was from the outside hills to the crest; and far less steep. Pippin rolled, tumbled, and skidded his way down, raising a cloud of grey dust that looked like ancient ash. He came to rest by a field of dull green grass.

"Ouch," he moaned, rubbing his bottom. "And I'm all bruises once again."

He picked himself up. He checked his equipment. Yes, his dagger was still there, and he knew Trollsbane had not been lost. Just a few bruises and cuts then.

"Well, that wasn't quite so bad," he said. Then he looked up, and his words died into the mist.

A grove of trees grew in the center of the hollow. They were old, and gnarled; but no older trace of growth was around them; they sprouted after the Downfall, then. Their bark was silver, their leaves dark green and three-pointed. Mallorns.

Pippin walked towards them. He felt a strange stillness pass over him; his heart beat clear and strong, but unhurriedly; curiosity was almost overwhelming him. The fog was heavy and nearly opaque. It swirled with his tiny breaths. He was not chilled; but his fingers were cold.

He came to the trees, and realized they had grown in a ring. Within them was a glade of grass, and a small, clear pool sheltered by a standing rock of black, glassy stone. From a cleft in the stone sprang forth water.

Pippin, not knowing why, undid the clasp of his belt and laid his arms aside on a nearby low branch. Weapons would not be welcome. How he knew that, he did not know, but he knew it indeed, as well as he knew that no shoe or boot was to touch this grass. But his feet were always bare. He took a step, and entered the circle of trees.

* * *

It was dark. The world was formless and void. A wind from the West blew over the surface of the Sea.

A new star blazed forth in the heavens. A mighty host crossed the Sea. The Dark Power was defeated, his pits unroofed, and he himself cast from the world into the endless void. Land sank under the power of the wrath of the West. The sea rushed over them.

Scattered ships of Men roamed the waters.

An island rose to meet them.

Their power grew with the passing years. They learned knowledge, and strength, and their craft surpassed any who came after. Their cities sprouted towers tall as hills. They shaped rock like children shape sand, and forged metals never before seen under the light of the Sun or Moon. Their ships all but flew across the oceans.

A fleet crossed the Sea to the aid of the Elvenking. They were delayed by storm, but their coming was as the host of the West in Elder Days. The new Dark Lord submitted to their power, and the men of Middle-earth bowed low before them, the tall sea-kings, for they seemed closer to gods than men.

Vast were their voyages. All of Arda's oceans they sailed. Every land they sought to touch. Every haven they found to chart. Ever they searched for anything that might give them their deepest desire: the immortal life of the Elves and the gods.

A prince set sail with three ships. He flung nets to dredge the ocean floor, far in the north over the lands beneath the wave. He uncovered much treasure lost, but he cared nothing for riches, seeking instead for knowledge and the virtue in the attempt.

Then his nets brought up a jewel shining like a star. Its beauty entranced the prince, and possessed him, and he would not give it up. He abandoned his quest and took his ships and his jewel far into distant oceans.

The prince sailed his ships through many waters, till he ventured into the eastern sea whence the Sun rises. There a mighty storm came upon his ships, and they foundered, and he and those of his men who also survived were left on a beach by the mouths of a grand river. But he kept the jewel in a pouch on a chain around his neck, and so he retained it when he was cast upon the foreign shore.

The survivors took what they could and followed the river into the desert, to a hidden valley where Men dwelt in huts built under overhanging cliffs of stone. There, exhausted and half-dead, they sought refuge among the savage tribes.

They came to love the people of the valley, and the people welcomed them as impoverished gods, and offered them wives to bed, which they accepted. The prince became their ruler, their god-king, and he ruled them for three generations of men.

And the jewel that guided him he set upon a tower for all to gaze at but never again touch. And it shone like a star come down from heaven, a star that would never set.

Upon the island kingdom in the midst of the Sea, a terrible doom was fast approaching. Convinced, and deceived, that they were worthy of godhood, the mighty kingdom and her greatest king sent forth an armada the scale and scope of which the world would never see again, armed with weapons unheralded in mortal thought until a far later age, set upon the prows of thousands upon thousands of ships of gold. And they landed upon the Blessed Land, and laid siege to the holy city and the mountain of the gods.

Blasphemy. Catastrophe. Disaster. Downfall. The Powers laid down their guardianship, and the One changed the world. The Great Rift opened in the midst of the Sea, and into it plunged the great waters, and the island was cast down into everlasting darkness. Only the mountaintop remained, a lonely isle above the grieving waves, for it was sacred to Eru, and was ever a holy place.

Nine ships of those who remained faithful were spared, and fleeing east founded Kingdoms in Exile.

But in Far Harad, the lost prince's kingdom remained placid and proud beneath the bedazzling light of their captive Star.

* * *

"Razar! Razar, wake up!"

Pippin didn't want to open his eyes, but he kept getting water in his nose and mouth, and he wondered why Asouk was trying to drown him. He knew Asouk was carrying him, and that they were running. Why he was carrying him, he didn't know.

He opened his eyes to see his friend's face wet with pouring rain.

The storm had come.

"What happened?" he cried, as a thunderclap shook the air.

"We found you within the circle of trees," said Asouk over the roar of the rain. "We could not wake you. The weather had began to turn, so we decided to go back. We have been running for the past hour, but the storm has only grown worse. I fear it will become much worse before it gets better."

Pippin nodded. "Put me down!" he yelled back. "I'm awake now."

"My legs are longer!" Asouk replied. "What happened to you?"

"I don't know! It was like I fell asleep!" Pippin felt frantically for his weapons. They were not on him. "Asouk—"

"You were talking in your sleep," Asouk interrupted. "Were you dreaming?"

Pippin's head ached. "I don't know!"

The storm had turned the tangled forest into a thicket of impassable avenues. They had no time for delicacy. Bangshar and Davy hurried ahead, clearing a path for Asouk and Pippin. The ground was soaked and footing treacherous.

Davy cried out in alarm and vanished.

"Davy!" Pippin cried. They ran to the boy's aid. He had slipped into a shallow ravine.

"I'm all right!" Davy called. "Nothing's broken." But he grimaced as he put weight on his ankle.

"You've sprained it," Bangshar said, hurrying down to get him. He slung the boy's arm around his shoulders. "Come!"

"Put me down," Pippin said. "I can run as fast as you walk."

Asouk hesitated, and then did as Pippin asked.

Pippin joined Davy and Bangshar in the bottom of the depression. "Let me take that bag," he said, pulling the haversack from Davy's shoulder.

"Thank you, Pippin," said Davy, and with Bangshar's help climbed up the steep, slippery slope, hobbling through the wet earth and dead leaves. Pippin opened the haversack and found Trollsbane and his belt among its contents. He sighed in relief. Then he tripped over something upon the ground.

"Razar?" said Asouk.

"There's something down here," Pippin said, crawling through the leaves, brushing them away. "They feel like …"

He gasped. He had uncovered a skull. Ancient and worn, covered in hardened black ash, yet still whole, it lay half-buried in the earth, lost in forest litter. Something glittered around it. Pippin scraped some earth away. It looked like gold. He picked it up. It was a delicate golden fillet, worn upon a woman's brow, made of woven metal like thread in which somehow was braided strands of minute diamonds. It was an ornament fit for a queen.

"Razar!" Asouk shouted. "We must go!"

Pippin nodded. He made to tuck the fillet into his pouch. Then he glanced at the skull. This queen, whoever she was, had died here, possibly upon the Downfall. This belonged to her.

Pippin decided to leave the fillet where he found it. "I'm sorry," he said to the woman's bones, and climbed out of the ravine.

Through treacherous winds and unslackening rain, Pippin and his companions ran, until they heard the surf pounding against the beach. They broke through the last stand of brush to see Neimor, his black cloak spilling around him in the wind and rain, beckoning them strenuously, and three men holding down the longboat through the powerful waves.

"Hurry! Hurry!" the captain cried. The explorers ran as fast as they could. "Come!"

Pippin splashed into the spill of the waves, watching at the breakers beyond. Most were taller than he was. Primal terror waked in his heart, but he swallowed it down. He would not be daunted by wind and water!

Long hands seized him under his arms and threw him to the men in the boat. They caught him, sputtering. "Asouk!" Pippin cried. "I could have swum, you know!"

"No arguing!" Asouk retorted, wading through. "Come! Come!" he urged Bangshar and Davy. "Captain!"

Neimor joined them and climbed into the boat, followed by Asouk. Each man grabbed an oar, except for Pippin, who went to the prow to look out into the storm.

"Where's the ship?" he cried.

"I sent her out into deeper water!" Neimor responded. "I took the longboat back to shore to wait for you. You appear to have been delayed!"

"You could say that!" Pippin said. "How are we going to ride out this storm?"

"In the open sea!"

Pippin nodded and returned to his stance, gazing into the rain that now stung with salt as it mingled with the spray of the waves. The pellets of rain flew harsh against them as the wind strengthened. Powerful swells rocked the boat and the bay, and against the ridge of rocks where the _Sword_ had been anchored, the surf crashed in massive breakers.

Pippin saw the lights of the ship, which rolled among the swells beyond the island rocks. He looked back, and Meneltarma was wreathed in rain and cloud. Fragments of his vision upon the hollow in the mountaintop returned to him, of the Downfall of Númenor and the wrath of the West; even as they came to the ship and climbed up the thrown rope ladders, he saw in his mind the great green wave of the Sea washing over the hapless land.


	6. The Bone Shore

_Part VI_

**The Bone Shore**

* * *

The beach was full of ghosts. A current born from the faraway southern ice here scraped against scorched rock and dry beige sand, raising a fog that streamed inland for miles. Bones lay upon the sand: whales, seals, antelope, the mighty tusks of oliphaunts.

Through the mist came a cave lion. Unlike the lions of later ages, it was twice as large, and its mane more like a ruff. It growled and rumbled in its belly, sniffing the air for carrion. Instead it smelled fresh and unfamiliar meat. It padded over the sand, perceiving shapes through the mist, objects strewn upon the beach by the waves.

The scent came from a small creature lying facedown upon the sand. The lion approached it warily. It would make a good snack. The lion bent its snout to nudge the creature onto its back and bare its neck and belly. It was a pale, furless thing, with soft skin, easily eaten. As the lion nudged it, the creature made a soft noise. The lion licked its chops.

Out of the fog with a loud cry came a Man. He threw himself at the lion, stabbing at it with his knife. The lion snarled and lashed out with a paw. The man leapt barely clear, and swung his knife again, cutting the lion on the nose. The lion, annoyed and hurt, roared and gnashed its jaws at the Man. It reared up on its hind legs and leapt.

The Man fell. The lion pounced on him and growled, preparing to relish this larger and more satisfying meal, when a sword was run through its neck behind its head. It fell dead.

The Man looked past the predator's jaws to the small, grim face above him.

"Asouk?" said Pippin, pulling Trollsbane from the lion's neck.

Asouk nodded. "I am all right." He pulled himself from beneath the corpse. "And you?"

Pippin crawled off the lion and stood, swaying unsteadily on his feet. His clothes were rent and his face hollow and his arms and chest were marked with sunburn and fading bruises. He blinked, beholding himself.

"What happened?" Pippin murmured. Slowly he crumpled like a leaf, and Asouk caught him and gently eased him down.

* * *

The storm had battered the ship for three days and three nights. With all Neimor's skill and knowledge, they had been unable to break free of the tempest, and it was all he could do to keep the ship upright amidst the waves that threatened to sink it at every moment. They had touched the Isle of Meneltarma; Ossë was not amused.

Within the ship "dry" lost all meaning. Every corner seemed touched by the madness of the sea. The lower decks were constantly flooding, and twenty men had to work continuously in shifts to bail out the bilge. Up on deck, the sails were reefed tight, but Neimor and Asouk feared the lines would break. If the sails, as huge as they were, were unfurled in the storm winds, the yards and masts would be lost.

Pippin had become seasick again, and fought through it, working where he could to help the ship survive. He worked so hard, in such dangerous places, that Neimor had Asouk take him aside. "Doom oft goes ill with those who dare master it."

When the port anchor came loose, the entire ship wheeled in the sea, stuck like a snared animal. The iron anchor was caught in the deep currents of the roiled sea worse than had it snared bedrock. Neimor ordered the rope cut, and Davy, closest to it, took out his saber. But another swell crashed against the port side and Davy stumbled and almost washed overboard.

Pippin was lying pressed against the forward boat and the bow deck. He saw what they needed to be done and crawled towards the anchor hold and the capstan. Neimor shouted, "Peregrin! Don't," but Pippin ignored him, pulling out Trollsbane as more waves raced murderously toward the keeling prow. Rain and wind and knifing spray tore at his clothes and face as he braced himself against the deck and the gunwale and reached with his knife for the treacherous rope. He couldn't strike the rope properly, but he tried anyway, trusting the keenness of his sword's edge. He struck it, once, twice, three times, a fourth—and the rope frayed and gave way; but not before it coiled around Pippin's arm and pulled him into the sea.

"Peregrin!" cried Neimor.

Asouk took one look at the halfling lost in the midst of the tempest. He raced down the drenched deck and snagged a halyard from the mainmast and then flew with a leap into the sea. He swam to Pippin, clutching the rope.

Neimor dashed to the gunwale, with Bangshar, and Davy, and the other men. "Pull!" cried the captain, as Asouk pulled Pippin's head from the water and in the middle of all the chaos cradled him against his shoulder like a father comforting a son.

Then disaster struck. The halyard caused the mainsail to loosen and strain against its ropes. In a gust of wind, the ropes broke, and the _Sword_'s vast black mainsail was opened to the full force of the tempest. The men leapt for the stays, for the flapping halyards. Some were thrown down, others thrown into the sea, only to pull themselves back.

"Tame that sail!" Neimor cried. "Cut it loose if you have to!"

Bangshar leapt to comply, leaving Neimor and Davy to hold onto the rope to which out in the sea Asouk clung one-handed, still cradling the half-conscious Pippin. Bangshar pulled out his scimitar, speeding to climb the shrouds and cut the bindings of the mainsail. Then came the sickening crack of tearing wood strained beyond the limits of its strength. Neimor saw it. "Davirin!" he cried, throwing himself at Davy and getting them both out of the way. Pulled by the winds and the weight of the tremendous sail, the main yard and mast broke, and crashed against the deck, breaking the port gunwale and sliding in ruin into the sea.

"Can you see them?" Neimor cried to anyone.

"There, captain!" said a pirate. "Asouk and Razar!"

Neimor's eyes hardened. He took out his sword and went to the nearest boat. He cut its moorings. "Into the sea! Give them a chance!" he ordered. Davy, Bangshar, man after man ran to the boat and they all pulled it and threw it into the sea.

Bangshar shook his head. "They are lost," he said.

Neimor said nothing. Then he ordered, "Clear the deck of this mess. We will survive."

The men jumped to their tasks. Davy was among them, quick and relentless as any of the others, and everything was so wet none could tell the rain or the spray from his tears.

But in the sea, Asouk swam to the boat and caught it. He threw Pippin in, followed by himself, before losing consciousness amid the waves rolling like hills upon the sea.

* * *

2.

* * *

When Pippin woke again, he saw Asouk sitting by a fire, roasting strips of meat. He lay beneath the shade of the boat, which was propped up by a long bone. A glistening, translucent object lay by the fire, filled with air. The lion's stomach.

Pippin propped himself up on his elbows. He ached, and his mind was fuzzy. His throat was dry.

"Water," he said.

"There is none but sea," said Asouk. "There is blood from the lion."

Pippin was nauseated. "No, thank you."

"There will be waterholes in the interior," said Asouk. "When you feel better, we shall seek them."

Getting a drink would be the best way for him to feel better, thought Pippin, but he didn't say it. He sat up. His right shoulder ached a little, more than just the bruises and strained muscles of the rest of him. He massaged it.

"It was dislocated when the anchor rope took you," Asouk said. "I reset it several days ago."

"I'm glad I was asleep for that, then," said Pippin.

"You were not. You cried out."

"I don't remember that."

"Good."

Pippin grunted. He was a hobbit; hardier than he looked. He'd survive injury. The lack of water, on the other hand, was a bit more alarming. He looked around, seeing the landscape for the first time.

The grey beach lay along the blue sea where massive breakers crashed against the strand. The surf extended out many yards to a pair of rocky islands teeming with pied birds like otters. He looked around him, discerning the skeletons like markers lost in the void, and through the thinning mist saw the sand rise to the crest of a high dune. The air was growing dry. A longshore wind was beginning to blow.

"Where are we?" he asked. His voice seemed both loud and lost in the expanse of his surroundings.

"The Bone Shore of Far Harad."

"What?" Pippin said, his eyes wide.

A small smile lit Asouk's face. "Far Harad. You wanted to come here, you are here. You are good luck, Razanur Tuk."

"The others?"

Asouk sighed. "Last I saw the ship," he said, "she had lost her mainsail."

"Oh, no," Pippin said.

Asouk shook his head. "If any can survive such a storm, it is the _Sword_ and her captain."

"The last thing I remember was cutting the anchor loose," Pippin said. "You say the ship was still afloat … I'll have to hope they made it safe back to Meneltarma or some other land. Or sail still.

"But how did we survive?" he wanted to know.

Asouk was silent so long Pippin started to think he wouldn't answer him. The wind was roiling the mist. The sun was beginning to grow hot. The meat was done roasting; other strips of the lion's flesh was drying and curing in the sun.

Then Asouk asked Pippin, "Do you have gods?"

Pippin flinched. What a question to have first thing in the morning.

"Not really," he finally answered after a moment's hard thought. "The Elves talk about Elbereth, and I know about the Powers, but—I mean, we've no temples or such things in the Shire. We've never really given any thought to it." Pippin frowned. "But I've seen—"

He stopped himself, thinking again. "I don't know any gods," he said, "because none have introduced themselves to me. Except Sauron, I suppose, but he doesn't count. I've seen wondrous things, though. Why?"

Asouk sighed. "Wondrous things," he repeated. "So.

"We escaped the storm, but were dying of thirst. A line of clouds appeared and it began to rain. There was no wind and the sea was calm. Only rain. It filled the boat until it nearly sank. Then it stopped, and we had fresh water to drink.

"You always wear your cloak. I have never known why, but on that boat I realized it was proof against water. With it I kept some of the rain, enough to live on. But I didn't have much hope.

"Then in the evening I heard the song of great whales." Asouk's voice became distant. "I thought I had slipped into a dream.

"Blue leviathans swam beneath us and around us. They came up from the depths graceful as gazelles, as the leaping gazelles on the coast of Belfalas. I have never seen whales come so close. I did not know them, nor what they would do.

"They bore us upon their backs, Razar. First one, and then another, at great speed, into the southern seas. I counted ten sunsets on our journey.

"And all that time, they sang to us, such songs as I cannot describe. Do you not remember?"

Pippin did not. "They brought us here?" he asked, his voice small.

Asouk stared out into the sea. He was far from their little camp. "They took us far, but then went their own way. I do not remember how we came to land here. I do remember pulling myself up onto this shore, and then taking you from the boat. And sleeping. When I woke, I went to explore our surroundings, gathering firewood. When I returned I saw the lion."

He looked down at Pippin. "To be cast from a storm-tossed ship: that, I understand. To be swept in a steerless boat onto this desert coast: that, too, I understand.

"But a guard of whales … such a thing I could not credit had I not witnessed it with mine open eyes. Such things are not possible."

Pippin wondered what to say. "Impossible things happen sometimes," was what he came up with. "I've seen it."

They stopped talking. The lion meat was cooked, and though it was tough and had a gamy aftertaste, Pippin was starving.

* * *

3.

* * *

"When I asked you about the creatures of this land," Pippin complained, "I could have sworn you didn't mention dragons."

"That is not a dragon," Asouk whispered back. "That is a very large lizard."

Pippin peeked over the crest of the dune, down towards the watering hole. The creature was twenty feet long from nose to tail and covered in dull green scales. It had a blunt snout with a spike upon its nose, and though wingless, its splayed limbs ended in curved claws. It rested in the shade of a stand of thorn bushes, frightening away even the desperately thirsty long-horned antelope watching from a safe distance away.

Pippin turned from the creature to the remains of a dead antelope, one that had gotten too close. It was still covered in the green slime that had killed it, that came from the great lizard's mouth, spit some ten feet from its jaws.

"It's big, it's scaly, and it looks like an unpleasant fellow to run into," Pippin said to Asouk. "That's 'dragon' enough for me!"

Asouk noticed Pippin's hand rested on Trollsbane's hilt.

"Razar," he said, "we can find another watering hole."

"Not soon enough," Pippin retorted. It was almost noon. The sand was baking, the rocks sizzling, and Pippin apt to broil. Thankfully the elven-cloak once again proved its worth; it remained light and cool, and with its hood it protected Pippin from the sharpest edges of the sunlight.

He was thirsty. They had been walking all morning, searching for a watering hole, and this was the first they had found, following the tracks of animals. From the looks of it the water must have been as warm as stale tea, but it was water nonetheless, freshest they could get this close to the Bone Shore. Asouk had brought along the dried, preserved lion's stomach, which he said was a water bottle, and Pippin wanted it full, and his own stomach along with it.

"I want a drink," he said, "and all we have to do is get past that dragon lizard thing."

Asouk sighed. "What is your plan?"

Plan? What plan? Pippin was thinking of running down there, up its back and hacking its head off with his sword.

For some reason Asouk was not keen on this course of action.

"It will feed on the oryx," he explained, "and then, if I know my lizards, it will go to sleep. Even a reptile must take care in this sun. While he sleeps, we may then collect our water."

"And how long will that take?" Pippin wanted him to explain.

"Patience, Razar," Asouk said.

Pippin gazed narrowly at his companion, wondering when the tall, dark Man had turned into Merry.

"All right," he conceded. He turned around. "Shall we wait here?" He eyed Asouk critically. "I don't care how dark your skin is, you need shade. Do you want my shirt?"

"It would not fit."

"For your head, silly."

"I am fine."

"That's what you said about your feet," said Pippin, nodding at the painful calluses that had sprouted on the Man's feet. "Can't have that," he added, and untied the sleeves of his shirt from his waist. He handed it to Asouk, who sighed and placed it on his head.

They settled in to wait. Pippin quickly got bored of watching the lethargic lizard and turned his attention to the coast. They had walked a long way from where they had left the boat. The islands with the swimming, pied, otterlike birds were closer now, and Pippin could see that it was a rookery of some sort. On the shore farther north some few miles away he could see a great horde of heron-like fowl with pink plumage and sharply bent bills. As they walked he had seen swift little seabirds with black hoods and sharply pointed wings, and high in the sky over the arid dunes, golden vultures, wheeling upon columns of rising air.

The land they had passed through included many coastal cliffs and hollows encrusted with salt. Asouk had scraped some into a small cloth he had torn from his pants leg and, tying it off, kept it in his pocket. Pippin himself had been tempted, upon the sight of bird's nests in the rocks, to gather some eggs, but their first priority was not food—they still had strips of lion meat—but water.

Pippin had observed, earlier that morning, black beetles climb to the top of the dunes and stand on their heads, catching the rolling fog and drinking the droplets that condensed upon their bodies. He had suggested a similar contraption involving his cloak, the boat, and Asouk holding it up for a few hours. Asouk had not agreed.

They had glimpsed few larger beasts. The oryx, as Asouk called the antelope with striped faces and long spearlike horns, were the first. They had seen tracks which Asouk said were of ostrich, which Pippin imagined as some sort of giant turkey with horses' legs. They had seen small, thin lizards with bulbous, shining eyes, that Pippin named gollums when Asouk couldn't identify them. Late in the morning Pippin had come across the strangest tracks he had ever seen, a series of undulating lines crossing over the dunes.

"Viper," Asouk told him.

"Viper?" Pippin repeated with a shudder. "You mean snakes. I hate snakes."

"Razanur the Incorrigible is afraid of snakes?"

"Did I say that? I am not _afraid_ of snakes. I just think they're unpleasant."

"They are no more unpleasant than any other creature."

"Save fell beasts and dragons."

"There are no dragons here," said Asouk. "They come from the north. Where _you_ come from."

Now Pippin peeped over the crest of the dune at the giant reptile between him and fresh water. No dragons indeed.

The lizard had taken the body of the dead oryx into its mouth. It shook the carcass violently till it tore apart. Then it snapped up a hunk of meat in its mouth in one gulp.

"Oh that's disgusting," said Pippin.

"Is it sleeping yet?"

"We'll be sleeping soon, dry as toast!" Pippin said. "Let's just run down there, you distract it, and I'll cut off its head. Simple!"

"Razar …"

"I know, I know. Patience, planning … honestly, Asouk, sometimes you sound just like a Brandybuck."

"Is that an insult?"

"Absolutely."

It took nearly half an hour, or so Pippin reckoned, for his dragon to consume its meal. He sighed and pulled the hood of his cloak lower over his face, grateful for the shade and the coolness it afforded. He looked at Asouk, who seemed to have dozed off, and threw a corner of his cloak over his friend's shoulders and chest.

When his dragon's eyes began to grow bleary, Pippin straightened. Instantly Asouk was awake. The man turned close to the hobbit.

"So?" he whispered.

Pippin nodded. He grinned.

They climbed down the face of the dune and went around it, following the dry bed that ran from the muddy pond to the seashore. Asouk moved stealthily, Pippin silently. The oryx had wandered back closer to the water hole, and some of the fowl including golden vultures were coming for a drink of their own.

As they drew near, Pippin drew his sword and gave it to Asouk.

"I'll get the water," he whispered.

Asouk nodded, keeping his eyes on the giant lizard, now curled up in torpor in the shadow of the thorn-bushes.

Pippin took the lion-stomach bag and dipped it into the water where it was least muddy and trod. He filled the bag full, and then twisted the skin top and bound it with the cord of sinew, amazed once again by what Asouk could make out of a single lion carcass.

Once he'd filled their water skin, he bent over and began to drink himself. He forced himself to swallow the first muddy mouthful, but afterward his thirst overcame his qualms and he drank deeply of the bad water. He rubbed his face with it, tipped it over his tangled hair, splashed his chest and arms, shuddering in delight as the warm water turned the air cool over his sunburnt skin. He had to remind himself to keep from laughing out loud at the pleasure of potable water on his skin and tongue. He looked at Asouk and beckoned him to take his fill.

A clear cry lanced through the air. Pippin looked up, startled, as a wanderer falcon alighted by the thorn-bushes. It had a black hood and back and golden eyes over a speckled breast. It looked at him. He returned the look with a small smile.

Suddenly a fight broke out amongst the oryx. A young male had pushed a calf, angering its mother, who snipped at the rude interloper. The commotion made the falcon cry out and leap into the air, followed by the other birds, as Asouk lay on the ground and filled his stomach.

The lizard's eyes opened.

Pippin nudged Asouk. "It's awake!"

Asouk nodded. He rose to his feet. Pippin stood next to him.

The lizard eyed them flatly. Its tongue flickered in and out of its lips. It began to unwind its limbs and body from its slumbering pose.

Asouk began to back away, Pippin as well, all the time watching the creature. Asouk handed Trollsbane back to Pippin with a meaningful glance. Pippin understood: back to plan one.

Slowly the lizard's eyes blinked. Its belly heaved, and its throat rippled. It began to open its jaws, and both Pippin and Asouk braced themselves to run from the first jet of poison.

Instead the lizard vomited a piece of the oryx.

Pippin almost gagged. Even Asouk winced. But they kept watching as the lizard looked down, as if bemused by the sudden reapparance of its meal, and took a few steps before dining on the softened flesh.

Pippin and Asouk evacuated the scene as quickly and unobtrusively as they could.

"That was the most revolting thing I've ever seen," Pippin said, once safe.

* * *

4.

* * *

They found more, and fresher, watering-holes, the further north they walked. Indeed it soon became apparent, as they neared a low ridge of sandy hills, that they were passing from the desert into grassland.

Asouk's footsteps grew stronger. He seemed to smell things in the air, things that meant nothing to Pippin but which made his companion often fill his nostrils with them. Perhaps he was smelling in the scents the memory of home. Pippin often thought the smell of dry oats and greenwood and wool and Merry and Frodo were his surest memories of his early childhood.

They walked during the morning and the evening, resting beneath what shade they could find, or make, during the heat of the day, and sleeping by a guarding fire by night. Pippin's body adjusted quickly to sleeping upon the ground again, falling asleep immediately and waking to take his watch. It was like he was a tweenager again, off on the Quest.

Pippin's sunburn faded into the beginnings of a brown tan. His hair was bleaching fair in the sunlight. To his dismay, he had sprouted a field of freckles on his cheeks and nose.

They hunted once, succeeding in bringing down a small antelope, most of which they dried and smoked, seasoned with the salt Asouk had gathered. Still, after almost a week of dining on nothing but lean meat, they were slightly unwell. It was when Pippin was beginning to eye a patch of bilious green seaweed, washed up on shore, with something akin to gluttony that they came upon the encampment.

Three rude shacks made of wooden boards and hide, covered in dust and windblown sand, lay upon the beach, by a grass-topped dune and a shallow lagoon. Asouk and Pippin hid for a long time, watching it, but no one came or went and they judged it either abandoned or temporarily uninhabited. Asouk wondered aloud if it was some sort of occasional encampment for hunters or fishermen.

Pippin didn't care if they were shacks for people come to mine bird droppings. If there were anything of use within the shacks, he was borrowing them, permanently.

They went to the largest of the shacks. Pippin drew his sword and nodded at the door. "Break it down."

Asouk stood by a low window and raised its hide cover. "Or you could climb in."

"Or I could climb in." Pippin put Trollsbane away, grabbed the wooden ledge, and nimbly pulled himself up.

Asouk lifted the flap to take a look himself. They saw a table, two racks that may have served as beds, and dusty shelves containing inviting items in baskets and jars.

"If they have grain, or dried fruit …" Asouk said.

"If they have bread that hasn't been touched in a hundred years I'll be satisfied. Or pipeweed!" said Pippin, hopping into the room. His feet raised dust, and he absently kicked it from his fur. He walked to the front door, unbarred it, and opened it wide with a genial grin. "My dear Mr. Asouk, welcome to Peregrin Took's Abandoned Adventure Store!"

There was sadly neither pipeweed nor food in the main shack, but they did find dried beans and preserved nuts and fruits in one of the others, as well as preserved meats including, to Pippin's delight, what looked suspiciously like dried salted pork. It was tough as leather, but tasty, and Asouk cut off a small chunk for Pippin to gnaw. Pippin accepted it happily, and with one pocket full of dried fruit and the other full of nuts, he ransacked the main house in contentment.

"Let us not break anything," Asouk suggested as Pippin fumbled with a large crock jar he was peeping inside. "If by some chance those who use this camp come in the morning with us merely walking a few miles away …"

"Yes, yes, agreed," said Pippin, eyeing a cabinet locked by a twisted thong.

"Let me cut it," said Asouk, for the thong had been tied wet and allowed to dry stiff. But Pippin put his hands on it.

"Don't bother," Pippin replied. His fingers had met with tougher knots than this.

"You are a creature of many talents," said Asouk amusedly.

"Thank you, I know," said Pippin. "But all hobbits have nimble fingers." He swung open the cabinet door. "O ho! Treasure!"

Arrayed in rows were knives, tools, and weapons. Asouk stood behind Pippin and took up a large, curved knife. "We should not take too many things," he said. "I recognize the make of this blade. These are the same people who live at the mouth of the jungle river, north of here."

"The ones who took you prisoner when you were a boy?"

"The same."

"Well, then, I suggest we take all the weapons we can and bury or destroy the rest," said Pippin, taking a good dagger and a couple of thin throwing knives meant to be hidden in boots. These latter he beamed at, then frowned at, remembering he didn't wear shoes. Reluctantly he put them away.

Footwear. Asouk's feet had been bothering him early in their trek. "You should go look for boots or something," he said.

In the end they chose to leave the encampment as they found it, taking a pair of packs and some supplies for their planned journey to Asouk's people. The nuts, fruit and grains they had found were welcome fare, and they were strengthened as they set out. Of the weapons, Pippin took the dagger, and Asouk took the long knife, a stout staff, and one of several bows, with a quiver of arrows.

"I've never been good at that," Pippin confessed, regarding the bow. "A friend tried to teach me once, but … have you ever seen an ageless Elf prince pull out his hair and curse in Dwarvish?"

"You have your sword," Asouk replied. "If anything gets close enough to kill either of us, I'll trust to you."

Pippin smirked. "Agreed. Oh! That reminds me, I need a whetstone and some good clean grease. There we are."

Bedrolls, rope—"Sam," sighed Pippin, making Asouk frown—an iron for use with the whetstone to make sparks for fire; fate was smiling kindly upon the two travelers, it seemed to them, as they left the encampment and made for the low hills that hid the desert from the grassland.

* * *

By the next day Pippin was berating himself for eating so much as Asouk came to a halt atop a sandy, rocky hill. It was just after dawn, and the air was cool and damp.

"What is it?" Pippin asked him. The wind was rich and wafting over the hilltop. Asouk stood like a statue.

"Asouk?" Pippin said again, jogging up to him. "What's wrong?"

Then he saw.

Upon a plain of grass as endless as any sea moved countless creatures of every shape and size. Long-limbed wildbeast in the hundreds of thousands fed upon the green grass left by summer rain. Among them were herds of zorses, and antelope large and small, and long-necked camelopards; and birds, in the sky, in the grass, riding upon the backs of the wildbeast. To the north glimmered the folds of a fat and lazy river, set among marshlands and shadowy jungle, while copses of broad-boughed thorn trees like islands dotted the grassy plain. Far to the east, the mist shimmered on the horizon like the glittering of beaten silver, and was it only a figment of his imagination, or did Pippin see a flash of snow …?

He heard a trumpeting sound, and looked past the ridge, into another part of the grassland, and gasped.

Oliphaunts were walking. Unbound by weapons of war, unadorned by the signs of Men, the _mumakil_ walked in a group of twenty, cows and calves taller than the orchard trees of the Shire. Their great ivory tusks gleamed in the sun. Their grey and wrinkled bodies belied the movement of flesh stronger than any that walked the earth; and that earth trembled as they walked, or was that the sound of their voices, low and bone-shaking, like the leviathans of the deep?

Pippin was speechless. As a youth he had never cared for maps. The war changed that. He had stared at maps of the world, hungry for answers that were out of reach, wondering what lay within their blank spaces. Now one of those spaces was filled before his eyes, as if by an unimagined hand.

Pippin began to laugh, and he found he couldn't stop. Asouk began to laugh with him. As they laughed, they forgot their aches and pains and their precarious situation, lost in a vast land. What mattered was the journey: for one a journey home, for the other a journey to whatever end.


	7. The Plains of the Sun

_Part VII_

**The Plains of the Sun**

* * *

Pippin saw a grey gravel road lying beneath overhanging birch boughs under a bright gibbous moon. A hobbit walked along it. It was Diamond. She wore a white dress and a blue cloak with her hair bound up by a black ribbon. Another black ribbon was tied around her sleeve. She walked slowly, glancing back behind her every now and then.

She stopped and smiled. Her face changed, becoming not just beautiful, but radiant.

"Come on, Farrie!" she said. "Come to mama!"

A little hobbit baby toddled into view, stumbling along with outstretched arms on his big and chubby feet.

"That's it!" Diamond encouraged, still smiling radiantly. "That's my lad, Farrie!" She sank down and stretched her arms wide. "You're almost there!"

The baby chortled. Another hobbit came into view, a young servant-girl with a starched apron and bib, watching Farrie's progress with careful eyes.

With a triumphant squeal Farrie closed the last foot and fell into Diamond's arms. Diamond hugged him tight and lifted him up, making Farrie giggle and crow.

"I'm so proud of you, my handsome lad!" Diamond said. "Isn't he such a great big hobbit, Pansy?"

"Yes ma'am," said the nurse with a curtsy. "Growing so fast, walking already, or making like to start at it. Such a shame he's got no dad to see."

Diamond glared coldly at the girl. "He has a 'dad'," she said. "The Thain's son will return." She buried Farrie's face in her shoulder, which he proceeded to drool on.

"But ma'am," protested the nurse, "the letter from the King come to Mr. Merry, the one about the boat sinking and all—"

"Peregrin is alive," Diamond said.

She took Farrie and left the nurse, quickening her pace down the gravel road. It was the road behind Great Smials, leading around the back of the high hill upon which the mansions of the Tooks was carved and delved, a low, green, comfy imitation of Minas Tirith, though none had remembered that until Peregrin Took returned.

Alone now, she tore the black ribbons from her sleeve and her hair and flung them away. Farrie laughed and grabbed fistfuls of his mother's pretty, pretty hair.

Diamond brought her son's face to hers. "You know that, don't you, baby?" she insisted, gazing into her son's sea-green eyes. "You do have a dad. He's just not here right now." She tweaked the tip of his pointy nose. Farrie giggled again.

"Yes," Diamond said, rocking the baby gently, "he'll come back. For you, he will." She sighed, looking up into the stars peeking through the birch leaves, and it seemed the ice in her eyes had finally melted, their water brimming upon her lashes. "I know it."

Farrie giggled and said Pippin's name.

* * *

"Razar?"

The stars, thick despite a bright gibbous moon, filled Pippin's woken eyes. He started awake, seeing Asouk kneeling next to him. They were encamped by a thorn tree. Their fire was still going strong.

"What were you dreaming about?" Asouk asked.

A dream. Pippin's heart sank.

"I was dreaming of my wife and son," he said. "I abandoned them, Asouk. I'm a horrible hobbit, you know."

Asouk said nothing. Pippin didn't expect him to.

Afraid to sleep and dream more dreams that he'd want to be true, he listened to the sounds of the night around him, to the soft twitters of night birds in the bushes around them, the panting of the young pard slung over a tree branch, the restless rustle of the herd of zorse some distance away, the singing of insects. The warm, rolling wind carried the hints of a lion roaring its claims, while underfoot rumbled the low, vast voices of the oliphaunts.

Pippin sat, mumbling the names of the animals in Banilem, Asouk's native tongue, which he was learning, and did not look up as Asouk sat down next to him.

"'Falcon'," Asouk said.

Pippin smiled dryly. "_Sihoru_."

"The Stormrider, the Rainmaker?" Asouk asked next.

"The Falcon of the Sun Who Brings the Rains," said Pippin. "_O Sihorunebi m'Hobengo_."

Asouk chuckled, whether in approval for his grammar or in horror at his accent, Pippin couldn't tell. "Would a man so heartless as to leave wife and child weep for missing them, Razar, _kisihoru_?"

Pippin glared at his friend. "I am not weeping," he said, and saying so, he did, tears leaking onto his sunbrowned cheeks.

Asouk put an arm around the hobbit's shoulders. Pippin wiped his eyes. "Well. That was unexpected."

"How long have you been away from them?"

Pippin thought. He had left in spring. It was well into summer now, or would have been had they walked anywhere else other than the endless summer of the Plains of the Sun. It was a month since they had washed up on the Bone Shore.

"Five months," he finally said. "Turning six." They were still at least three weeks from their destination. At least Pippin could see them clearly now: the two mountains from which the river sprung, the Younger and Elder Mothers.

Asouk nodded. "It must feel like a long time."

"Not compared to you," said Pippin. "You've been almost twenty years gone from your family."

"Twenty from one," said Asouk, "and only a month from the other."

Pippin nodded. "I hope the ship's all right, and Neimor."

"They are," said Asouk. "I know it."

_I know it._ Hearing Diamond's soft voice in his mind once more, Pippin turned on his side upon his bedroll, refusing to wallow in the ill wisdom of his choices.

* * *

2.

* * *

Pippin aimed at the gazelle, and then let fly. The arrow missed. Spooked, the gazelle and the rest of its herd bounced away, leaping on their four tiny hooves through the tall grass.

Pippin cursed.

"You must be patient," Asouk replied.

Pippin ignored him and stomped off to retrieve his arrow. He had told Asouk he wasn't good with archery. Did the Man think he could teach what Legolas couldn't? Knives, he knew. He had grown up with a knife. Everyone had knives. Knives were part of life, like bread and pipes. The sword, well, he was good at it. He practiced with Asouk even now, blunt sparring, not with Trollsbane but with the walking stick Asouk had made for him, using it like a sword against Asouk's own staff. He was passable at throwing knives, and he had learned a little boxing from Bangshar and the other pirates. But archery? It was a lost cause. It was. Pippin didn't know why he let Asouk talk him into it. Asouk brought down enough game for them to feed on.

He bent down to pick up the arrow.

Something burst from the tall grass: slope-backed, muddy-furred, with a long snout and an ugly gait. It ran for him and made to attack.

In a single motion he drew his sword and swung it in a sparkling arc through the creature's path.

The wounded creature yelped and ran away, shrieking.

By the time Asouk came to him, Pippin had already finished cleaning his sword.

"A hyena," he said to Asouk. "Stank." He frowned at Asouk. "What?"

Cloak cast to one side, the remnants of his shirt fallen open, Pippin's arms and chest and belly were nothing but muscle packed beneath tight brown skin. The lines on Pippin's face were deeper even as his cheeks were slimmer. Old battle scars mingled with the new scabs of thorn and grass blade and a month of hard travel.

"Did you know many Rangers?" Asouk asked him later. They had gone to a small, fresh stream to wash and drink among the birds and gazelles.

"Just three," said Pippin, "and they weren't ordinary Rangers."

"Were any halflings ever of their company?"

Pippin stared at Asouk and then broke into giggles. "Oh, oh, that's funny," he exclaimed between laughs. "Hobbit rangers! Now what a sight that would be!" He went on washing, not noticing Asouk's amusement.

They journeyed through grasslands and rocklands and crossed upwelling creeks through the fresh seasonal growth. Rain was plentiful and occasionally strong, and they took shelter beneath thorn trees or among rock outcrops that rose with regularity along the floodplain of the distant but ever-present river. They moved through herds of animals for which Pippin had no names: wildebeest and eland, waterbuck and nyala, kudu with their spiraling horns, and little antelope that sniffed the air like squirrels and barked like dogs and hopped away like rabbits when he approached. They strode past trooping monkeys, circled around baboons, kept an eye on pards in the trees and listened for the warnings of lions.

They passed towering mounds raised by termites that looked to Pippin like Orthanc before the Ents, and the ruins of trees devoured by a single family of oliphaunts, all the while keeping to the rising sun and the distant volcanoes, their summits crowned in immortal ice. Pippin almost forgot how to blink. His speech was growing peppered with Banilem and Haradi, words for places, creatures and things that had no names in memory in the tongues of the West.

At night, before he slept, he would watch the stars with Asouk, and swap stories of the constellations. He could see Menelvagor's Belt, and that made him think of Gildor and the Elves, and Boromir, and he told Asouk about his friend and fellow Walker.

"So it is true," said Asouk. "You _are_ one of the halflings who accompanied the Ring-bearer."

"Neimor never told you?"

"No."

They divided the night into two watches. Pippin would sleep first, and take up the watch past midnight until the dawn, listening to nightingales. This was more out of necessity than planning: his dreams usually woke him well before morning. They were growing stronger.

"What is that called?" he asked, pointing to a constellation he had noticed from the beginning: four stars at the corners of a diamond. But Asouk could not see it; to him, each star was part of other things. Pippin tried to follow his companion's patterns, but for him, the stars of the diamond persisted.

It was a long journey, hundreds of miles; but it was the season of the long rains brought by O Sihorunebi m'Hobengo, and the air was cool and wet, and the grass and herbs were green; the trees were blooming with sweet golden flowers, resounding with thrushes and larks and swallows and bee-eaters; there was plentiful game for the hunting, and they walked upon a flat and easy plain. With fire at night and their keen senses during the day—Pippin's no less than those of Asouk—distance was their only obstacle. And distance meant little to a long-legged man on his way home. It meant even less to a small hobbit lost to wanderlust.

"I was told," said Asouk one evening as they dined on roasted hare and herbs, "that halflings were soft and retiring creatures who enjoyed their comforts."

Pippin laughed. "We are! And I am, or at least I used to be. I think I've been ill-influenced by all the Men I've met." He picked up the pipe he had been fashioning. It would be finished soon; would he ever find anything worth smoking? "And besides, I'm a Took, and we have a particularly Fallohidish strain."

"Explain."

Asouk listened with interest that became horror as Pippin put forth his theories and investigations about his people's past, which hobbits tended to conveniently forget. They had not always been fat and happy—that was the result of having a fat and happy land. They used to be three separate nations of hungry little creatures, offshoots of Men who had grown small and secretive, hiding from the Big People and the immensity of Middle-earth. Harfoots were most civilized, and most numerous, with farms and herds. Stoors fished the rivers and traded, and were most like Men. The Fallohides were the least numerous, and the hungriest. They lived in the cold forests at the headwaters of the Anduin and hunted for their meat.

Some sixteen hundred years ago, Pippin concluded, events in the East drove the three kinds of hobbits into Eriador. The Harfoots and Stoots separately crossed via the Redhorn pass while the Fallohides dared the northern passes, fighting goblins and trolls and dragons.

"My cousin Merry thinks they must have passed near Rivendell," he added some hours later, still thinking about it. "There they learned much story and song."

Asouk grunted and kept walking.

Pippin expounded at length over several days, interrupted by hunting, dangerous beasts, sudden rain storms, and sleep, which for him didn't last long at all.

"The Harfoots lived in Bree at this time. They didn't like the Fallohides. They thought they were savages, you see, and who could blame them? But the Fallohides were bold, and tall, and they dealt with the Big People and the Elves much better than did the Harfoots. So they decided to live together, and, as things go, got together, and eventually we all became just hobbits. But my family, and my cousin's family the Brandybucks, still have a pretty obvious Fallohide background. You can tell by the light hair or eyes. My mother, who is of course of the stolid and enterprising Banks line, blames that bloodline for all the trouble I get into. But I used to be quite a typical hobbit, until … well, until the war and everything."

When he realized that the lessons were finally over, Asouk turned around and stared at Pippin.

"Are you certain you are not a respected scholar in your land?"

Pippin was surprised. "Me? Of course not!" He ended this with a nod of certainty and walked past Asouk, his stride long for a hobbit, his weathered shape strong against the wind.

Asouk shook his head yet again.

* * *

3.

* * *

"The _Nbonbe_," Asouk announced, pointing to the river that now threw a vast curve into their path. "We shall follow it from here on."

"We're almost there?" Pippin asked.

"Beyond that riverbend begin the pasturelands of my people. You shall know it when we enter it; we keep markers of our own, like lions."

"Sounds good," said Pippin. "As for me, I've had enough walking for today. Shall we camp by the river or on the plain?"

Asouk surveyed the choices. "There," he said, pointing to a dry copse. "Good?"

"Good," Pippin approved.

It was near midnight when Pippin began to toss and turn upon his bedroll, his eyes beneath their lids jerking left and right.

"Merry … _Merry_ …"

* * *

Merry was riding, riding through the Shire. His green cloak lay dark on him in the light of the moon. He rode a long-limbed white pony, and his face was grim.

The Green Hills rolled by. He rode through Tuckborough, and there were lights in the windows, even though it was near midnight. Hobbits ventured out of their homes to watch the Traveler pass by.

The road bent past Tuckborough, through well-tended woods rich with pheasant and quail, to the painted gate of the Tooks and the terraced, windowed hillside of Great Smials. The hobbits warding the gate swung it open just in time. Merry's horse charged through, up the gravel path to the many-leveled flight of stairs where once Lalia the Fat met her gruesome end, and up to the Great Door.

Pippin saw his cousin stride through the door past intimidated hobbits, through a number of Tooks of all classes gathered in the hall, up the staircase and through lamplit corridors, to the heavy door of the room whose windows faced west to distant Michel Delving.

Merry walked in and told the hobbits within, "Did no one invite me to this little party?"

Pippin recognized the startled faces, some of them purpling or paling in anger. He recognized his father-in-law, Sigismond Took of Long Cleeve, wearing his customary tweed and bonnet. He saw the sons of Adelard, his cousins: Reginard, Frodo's old friend, and Everard, who used to bully Pippin when they were children. Old Ferdinand was there as well, and Ferdibrand his son. And Pippin saw his sister Pearl, recognizing her by her curls, reddest of them all.

She sat next to the desk behind which sat a tall, grey-curled hobbit in a dark blue jacket and somber waistcoat, his face browned by years in the sun and lined with a million cares too many. He raised his eyes to Merry, and they were keen and sharp and sea-green.

"Hello, nephew," said Paladin, Thain of the Shire. "Good of you to visit."

"What is this Brandybuck to do with business of the Tooks, Paladin?" Sigismond protested.

"I'm more than half a Took by blood, Sigismond," said Merry, "and I'm here on my mother's behalf. And on Pip's."

"Oh, yes!" said Everard with a snort. "We never expected you to take his side."

"Be quiet, Ev," Reginard said. He rose. "I'm sorry, Merry. I should have invited you myself. As Pippin's cousin and friend, you should have been part of these discussions. As Master's Heir, you should at least have been advised."

"I was advised," said Merry, "by a sweet scarlet Pimpernel. She wrote me two days ago and sent a pony instead of the regular post. So I'm here now."

He glared at them all. "Pippin is not dead," he said.

"You received the King's letter yourself," Ferdibrand said.

"Yes, I did," Merry shot back, "and I read it myself, and if I say it said nothing about Pippin being dead, then mine would be the better authority in this matter, would it not?"

Reginard sighed. "Dead or not," he said, "he's left us, Mer. Again. From what I gather, perhaps for good …"

Pippin's sight dimmed, and he could no longer hear Reginard's words, or Merry's reply. They were disinheriting him? Was that what was going on?

He could still see his father's face, and he tried yet again to read its expressions. It was useless. He had never been able to understand his dad, and now it seemed he never would. Even if he did return, it would be too late to fix what had been broken for years.

Disinherited. It served him right. After all, a hobbit who abandons wife and child and duty to go off on a fool's errand, was exactly that: a fool. And worse.

Reginard spoke again. "I'll take care of things until Faramir comes of age."

So Reg was going to be take over? Good for him! Pippin thought well of his older cousin. He was level-headed, reasonable, calm, studious, and uncurious, possessed of good, firm hobbit-sense; everything Pippin wasn't.

"You, Reg?" said Merry, betrayed.

Reginard was sorrowful, but firm. "Someone has got to do his duty to family and country. You have."

Pippin waited for Merry's answer, and when nothing came, he looked to see Merry's face, and then he knew that he'd disappointed Merry too.

Pippin ran from his father's study into the churning winds of the _palantir_. When they cleared, he saw the inside of a palm-leaf hut, dark but for a guttering lamp. Its flame was reflected in the glass bottle, half-empty, clutched in the long, fine fingers of the man slumped over the table.

Neimor. Pippin thought his friend and captain looked haggard. His usually meticulously groomed mustache and beard were unkempt. His eyes were open, and stared at the papers before him: maps of Arda, of Belegaer, fanciful sketchings of half-mad maroons and lost travelers about the dark depths of Far Harad and a valley where a star shone on earth. That star caught Pippin's gaze for a moment before slipping away beyond his sight. The map had monsters in the corners. That sort of map.

A knock on the door.

"It's open," said Neimor. "It's always open." He was drunk.

Davy slipped through the opening and gazed in sadly and uncertainly. "Captain, sir?"

"What is it, Davy?"

"The natives, sir. They are complaining about the smell from the pitch."

"Their land oozes the stuff," said Neimor. "That was why we docked here, to mine their damned pitch and waterproof our new planks. You would think they have gotten accustomed to it."

"Sir, they're asking us to leave."

The captain laughed. "Very well. She can hold together a while longer." He smiled at the boy. "And a little more rowing should put even more meat on that skinny frame of yours, eh, Davy?"

Davy smiled. "Aye, sir. We can have your cabin fixed by then sure. So you won't have to bother with places like these."

"My gratitude is boundless," Neimor said wryly. "Have Bangshar tell them we shall depart from their fair bay within three days." He paused, considering. "Two days, if they don't mind parting with a few … trinkets, hey?"

Davy grinned wickedly. "Aye, sir."

"Be off with you then."

Alone again, Neimor leaned back in his chair, staring up through the holes in the woven roof at the muddy stars of this jungle cove. It was near midnight. Above him, a star fell. Pippin followed it, and he was swept back into the _palantir_'s mists.

It was broad daylight, strong and fierce, sometime in the past or the future, not the present. The swaying of the palms provided good relief from the heat. Pippin watched Diamond walk through the bazaar, pretending to inquire about the dates, the barley, the price of figs, the slaves; but she was not here to haggle, and in any case the merchants knew her to be a nomad, and mistrusted her. Beneath her veil, which shrouded her hair and most of her body, she kept her sword at ready.

Diamond? No, that wasn't Diamond. She didn't even look like her. Diamond was pale. This woman, a woman of Men, she was dark, swarthy, Haradrim. How had he mistaken her for his wife?

A procession of armed men blocked her path. They wore blue linen kilts and blue copper breastplates, their only armor in this dry heat. Their helmets were golden, and each one bore the symbol of the desert storm tattooed in blue upon their brow, the token of their lord.

The veiled woman's eyes narrowed at them. She said a word in a tongue Pippin didn't know, but which Pippin somehow understood: _Idolaters_.

Behind the men came a chariot drawn by a pair of noble horses. Upon the chariot, obscured by gauzy curtains, rode a woman in white and gold. She was beautiful, not young, and though queenly seemed more a prisoner than a ruler. Her eyes were full of grief as they alighted on the much younger woman in the traveler's veil.

But the veiled woman's concern was one of the horses. She recognized the black filly. She had come for it; it had been stolen from her people, who had traded for it in Umbar. The filly had seemed wild and unbroken, but she had managed to tame her, and they had become fast friends before the heathens took her. They would pay.

Pippin also recognized the black filly. It was Swallow.

A young man came to the woman, dressed similarly to her, with the same cast of face and manner. "Zeah," he said. "Another sortie is planned upriver for slave-taking. Near the great lake by the old volcanoes."

"The sorcerer's evil spreads so far south," she replied. "Hoz, this cannot last. Why does Nekhet not rise up against him?"

"He speaks with the king's voice," was the man's reply. "We can do nothing for them."

Zeah looked at the slaves in the marketplace with pity, and then beyond the old cliffside city and the ancient house of the king, to the desert ridge where once the Star these people worshipped shone above their valley. But the Star was now obscured, enshrouded in steep slopes of carved stone like a ladder to the sky.

_Zeah_, Pippin thought, slipping back into the stream within the _palantir_. _That's a nice name._

Then the clouds turned into fire, and he recoiled and tried to flee. He hated this part. He tried to wake up.

But the _palantir_ engulfed Pippin, sending its mists spiraling around his body, clutching at him. He tried to break free, but couldn't. Unease was wrenching his guts into twisted knots. He smelled his own fear.

All of a sudden the mists were gone and _he_ was there. The Eye was upon him. Pippin quailed and tried to run, but _he_ was too strong. He seized Pippin. Pippin tried to struggle, but it only amused _him_. Claws of pain raked beneath Pippin's skin. Pippin shut his eyes and tried to will himself away, but _he_ held him body and soul.

_What dainty is this, hmm?_

Pippin tried to scream, but in this dream, he never could.

* * *

4.

* * *

Pippin didn't speak about his dreams to Asouk, but they weighed on him even as they approached the herd lands of the Bani.

Pippin noticed two changes in Asouk's demeanor. Sometimes he strode forward so confidently he seemed ready to take flight. Yet other times, a shadow of doubt lay on his face, so that it seemed he was running not to home but to some sentence of punishment. Thinking back of Asouk's story, Pippin guessed it was trepidation over the welcome they would receive from Asouk's father and brothers. Asouk's brothers were Sauron-worshippers. Pippin didn't feel too excited about that himself.

They followed the river for three days along its curve, watching it gather strength as they neared its headwaters. The placid brown waterway here was strong and clearly rushing, swollen with rains, turbulent and foul with debris. They walked along it, but not near its flood shore; every now and then Pippin descried the floating carcass of some creature caught in the torrent. Ahead of them soared the smooth white cone of the Younger Mother, steam faintly rising from its summit. Beyond, the ice-crested crags of the Elder Mother remained many leagues away.

On the third day the grasses abruptly grew shorter, and cairns of stone painted yellow and red rose every mile for some distance. Asouk halted. He raised his hand, and Pippin stopped too, looking around for whatever Asouk had sensed.

"What is it?" he asked.

Asouk too searched the horizon. "I do not know. I am full of misgiving."

"Maybe you're just surprised to be home," Pippin suggested.

Asouk shook his head. "I am, but it is not that. Something is wrong."

Pippin's right hand went reflexively to Trollsbane's hilt, but he did not draw it. "Trouble?"

Asouk's hand tightened around his staff. "Perhaps," he said. He looked up as a shadow of a vulture passed over them. Pippin looked up too.

Vultures flew northeast, gliding in spiraling circle, and then dipping downwards. Pippin had been in the grassland long enough to know what that meant, clearer than crows back home.

They glanced at each other, and then began to jog in the direction.

The stench of death hit them well before they could see anything other than the feasting vultures. They drew their weapons and approached warily. As they came closer, Pippin saw the carcasses of slain cattle, their curved horns and heavy humps marking them an alien breed to any his father had raised. The vultures were not the only scavengers there; hyenas, jackals, and painted dogs all scurried about, looting meat from the bones.

"What happened here?" Pippin asked, then came upon the answer to his own question. Bodies of Men. Several were Bani, and had died shot by arrows. One though had died from sword wounds. He was holding a spear, and its tip was embedded in another Man, who was not Bani.

Pippin stared at the corpse. This man was golden-skinned, with thick lips and dark eyes, and his armor and cloth were blue.

Asouk looked too. "Nekhet," he muttered.

Pippin looked up at Asouk. "I've heard that name before," he said. "Is that a place? Where he was from?"

Asouk frowned. "That is his city, and his nation," he said, kneeling next to the body and probing it for clues. He held up the man's sword, curved like a scythe with a straight square tip, made of bronze. "But I do not know why his armor is blue, or know why a soldier of Nekhet would be waging war against my people so far south. What is this?" he added, spotting the blue swirl tattooed upon the dead man's brow.

Pippin saw it too. He remembered it from his dream.

_A sortie goes down the river for slave-taking. The sorcerer's evil spreads so far south._

He should tell Asouk, he knew. But instead he kept silent, staring at the field of death with the terrible knowledge that he had stood in many such fields already in his life.

Asouk stood. "This was a herding party," he said. "There should be a village close by …" he added, worried.

Pippin followed his friend's gaze east. "Well then," he said with a nod. He sheathed Trollsbane. "That's where we're going."


	8. Ngiranimo

_Part VIII_

**Ngiranimo**

* * *

Pippin sat cross-legged at the edge of the firelight, watching Asouk speak with the survivors of the attack. _Na Bani kaswarra o gatlamo ni Horkanbanbo. Horkanbanbe, a! Ukehori._ That was a name, or an epithet. _Horkanbanbo_, sky shaman. _Ukehori_. Demon blue.

Pippin saw one of the old men staring at him with suspicious eyes. Pippin looked away, and resumed sharpening his sword.

He heard a slight crumpling in the dirt behind him, and he said in Bani, "I see you."

The girl giggled a little. That was good. When he had found her, she had been mute with fear.

They had found the village by following what looked to Pippin like wain tracks. Their rims left furrows not wider than his wrist in the damp earth and green growth. They led them to the village.

It was a settlement of fourteen huts made of mud and straw, grey-white from the ash and pumice of the Mothers. As Asouk and Pippin walked in, they saw beams and maize drying in the sun, scattered from their well-ordered baskets and blankets; oxhide doors flung ajar at the houses; broken clods of earth, and cold cookery fires beneath burnt porridge and stew. Pippin looked at Asouk, and his companion's expression was cold and stern.

"Look in the homes," he said, and Pippin obeyed.

He found the girl at the back of one of the huts, hiding behind tall baskets. She was huddled in the shadows, but her eyes were huge, and she quivered like a plucked string when he discerned her.

Pippin sheathed his sword and smiled. "Hello," he said, then smacked himself mentally and switched to her own language. "_Pemen_," he said. "_Kibopemi_." Little man friend. He held out his hand to her. "Come on," he said in Westron, speaking to her as if he were speaking to Farrie. "It's all right, I'm not going to hurt you. _Kibopemi_."

The girl did not move. Pippin smelled a sharp odor. She had urinated. She was terrified of him.

Heart sinking, he went to the doorway, and called for Asouk. It was Asouk who convinced her to put her arms around his neck and be carried out into the light of the waning day.

The girl said her name was Tiso. She was seven years old. Asouk held her as she cried, saying the strangers had taken her mother and her sisters, and she did not know where her father was. Pippin wanted to hug her and tell her it would be all right, but he did not know that, and in any case she was scared of him. Instead he waited as Asouk asked her if there were any other survivors of the attack.

In the end she led them to the woody groves by the swollen river and called out for the elders who had there taken refuge. One by one they emerged. Tall, but none so tall as Asouk, and thinner than he, they wore robes of roughspun fabric the same red and yellow as the marker stones, dyed from ochre and seeds of flowers that grew plentifully among the slopes of the Mothers. They had come quickly to Asouk once he declared himself to them, but Pippin was another story. One of them, an old man with a long necklace composed of warthog tusks, pointed at him and demanded of Asouk what sort of witch he was.

Now as he sat by the fire and tended his sword Pippin kept one ear on the conversation and one ear to the girl who had come to sit next to him, staring at him with her large black eyes. She no longer seemed afraid, but she remained silent, chewing on some toasted millet from the bowl in her hand.

She offered him some. Pippin smiled and nodded. "Why, thank you," he said. "_Beme_."

The girl smiled. Well, this was an improvement.

Pippin chewed the millet. It was gritty, and saltless, but filling, and the toasting gave a nuttiness that was passably flavorful to a hobbit with a much-shrunken stomach.

Tiso watched him eat. Pippin noticed she was inching closer and closer to him, staring at his hair, his face, his ears.

He smiled again at her. "Want to sit with me? You can stare at my ears all you want, and I can have some more of your millet."

Between his expression, his tone, and the Bani words for "sit", "ears", and "millet," she must have grasped his offer. She grinned at him and went to sit by his side.

She reached out, shy again, and looked at him. "_Pengi?_" she said, pointing at his ear.

Pippin nodded. "You can touch it. I don't mind."

The girl's fingertips were rougher than he expected as they ran along the upswept scapha and helix of his left ear. When they found the point, they lifted for a moment, as if startled by its existence even though her eyes told her it was there. Then she touched her fingertip to it. Pippin squirmed. He was ticklish there.

Tiso giggled, and Pippin smiled at her. "You think that's funny," he said, "look at my feet!" And he wiggled his toes, making her laugh harder.

"_Nubna!_" she called him. "_Enokasi ni kibo nubnane._"

"Young lady," said Pippin haughtily, "did you just call me a jackal? Why, I may have to spank you!"

"_Nubne a._" Asouk stood above them, addressing the girl. "_I kibo akaso kisihoru._"

Tiso looked at Asouk, and then at Pippin, and nodded, her smile growing more serious. "_E_," she said, nodding. "_Kisihoru_."

"Tiso!" came the sharp voice of one of the elders, a woman, beckoning her. Tiso looked apologetically at Pippin, and then went to the woman, who bent close as if to scold her, and glared at Pippin.

Pippin sighed.

"They have not seen anyone like you before," said Asouk. "You must forgive them. We are not very fond of strangers."

"It's all right," Pippin said. "I don't care." He jutted his chin at the departing elders. "What did they say about a battle?"

"Chariots came from the northeast," said Asouk, "early this morning, before the sunrise. They attacked the herders who were out with the grazing, and then came here. They took all the able-bodied men and women, killing those who resisted. Afterward the elders fled into the woods with the children, except for one, apparently."

"What do you know of these Nekhetans?"

"Nekheti," Asouk corrected. "I have told you that they live in the valley of the Longest River, the only green land in the Great Desert. Their boats ply the River, sometimes all the way to the lake beyond the Elder Mother. We used to trade with them for their fine cotton cloth."

"They don't usually go around taking slaves."

"No. That is what is different. I never knew them to do so. This has been happening only in the last thirteen years."

"Do they trade the slaves with Umbar?"

"We would have known about it," Asouk said, and Pippin thought of Neimor and the other pirates. "I do not think Umbar has ever traded much with Nekhet. Their only contact must be through the wanderers of the desert, who are unwelcome."

"Oh? Why?"

"They are zealots," Asouk answered. "They worship fire, and it is said offer sacrifice to it upon a desert mountain. They are fierce warriors." Asouk glanced behind him. "These people are still frightened, but they do not know what to do. I have convinced them to seek the aid of our king in the village at the foot of the Elder Mother."

Pippin recognized the location. "Your village," he said. "Your father, then?"

"If he is alive," said Asouk. "I have not asked them. I do not wish them to know me, yet."

"I understand," Pippin said. "We're going there next then, I take it."

Asouk nodded. "In the morning. Tonight, I have promised we shall keep a watch on this village." He threw Pippin's sleeping roll on him. "It is time for you to sleep, before your dreams wake you."

"How kind of you," Pippin said. "I don't suppose I can sleep inside one of those nice huts tonight?"

"I do not think they would be willing, yet."

"Thought not. Ah, well, the life I've always wanted."

* * *

Pippin and Asouk left for Ngiranimo, the main village of the Bani, at dawn. The elders and the children watched them go with silent eyes and a few upraised palms. Asouk turned back and promised them to return with aid from the king.

The little girl, Tiso, was holding the hand of the old woman who had taken her in. She watched as silent as the others the two travelers walking east toward the dawn. Then the sun rose, and a random lance of light chanced to strike Pippin's face, making him wince and look away. It lit his hair copper and gold.

"_Kisihorunebi!_" Tiso shouted at him. She broke free from the old woman's grip and ran a short ways and pointed at the hobbit. "_O Sihorunebi m'Hobengo!_"

Pippin looked her way in surprise. Seeing him, the girl smiled, and waved, before her guardian caught hold of her again and forced her back to the line. But still she beamed at Pippin.

Pippin returned her smile.

* * *

2.

* * *

The trail to Ngiranimo ran around the Younger Mother's south side, where an ancient flow of molten rock had hardened into harsh boulders of great size rising like walls and fortifications above the rolling plain, and on through a brief vale to the greener slopes of the Elder Mother. It was a good three-day walk.

On the third day they came upon a tributary that sprang out of another of the old flows between the two mountains. Pippin and Asouk stopped there for a bit to drink. The water was bitter with minerals, but potable, as they shared the spring with a herd of impala, some washing widowbirds, and a sullen shoebill stork.

Pippin chewed on a strip of dried meat as they rested, sitting on a table-topped boulder he had found particularly pleasant to climb. He was in a thoughtful mood, and though the possibility of imminent violence was ever present in his mind, he paid it little attention for now, intent instead on the landscape about him and the taste of the food in his mouth.

"Asouk," he asked.

"Yes?" said his companion, sharpening his knives.

"Did the Bani ever fight for Sauron in the War? Or any war with the West for that matter."

Asouk glanced at him before answering. "Some," he said. "Those who are friendly with the jungle peoples. Those who worship the Eye. They trap young _mumakil_ and raise them as battle-fortresses. I have heard a great train of them passed through Umbar for the great battle before the White City."

Pippin nodded. He remembered seeing the dead beasts after the battle. "But these charioteers," he pursued, "they never did?"

"No," said Asouk. "Not that I have ever heard spoken of. The Valley is well-protected, and there are few roads for such an undertaking. The Longest River is their only highway, and it empties into the eastern sea, not the Bay." He gestured. "No, the _mumakil_-riders take their young mounts through the jungle to the havens by the Grey Mountains, old havens founded by the men of the sea who followed the Eye in the dark ages. The coastal route is long, but passable. The Valley is closed. North and east of it is hard rock and ash from the earth. And west is the Great Desert where none can pass."

"Except the sand people."

"Except the Erites, yes."

Pippin thought of the veiled girl in his dream, the one he mistook for Diamond though for no apparent reason why. _Zeah_. Somehow he knew she was one of these Erites.

Suddenly, as if struck by a gust of wind, Pippin saw her. She was in an alley among golden houses of brick and mud. Her breath was swift and her hair disheveled where it fell from the lip of her veil.

Soldiers surrounded the entrance to the alley, soldiers in blue armor with the blue swirl on their brows. They held their arced swords and advanced on her.

The woman raised her sword, curved and keen as a river-reed.

"I will not be taken."

Pippin cried out as the soldiers attacked her, but he was swept away again, to a round space surrounded by the whitewashed huts of the Bani, before a raised altar of stone, beneath the hideously graven image of a figure with outstretched arms. Instead of a face, it had a single burning Eye. A youth was bound upon a pyre, struggling, wide-eyed in terror, the ropes cutting into his flesh as he struggled. Other bound figures, all young and terrified, waited bound to the idol's arms. A figure in a lionskin robe, with the lion's skull and mane on his head, raised a dagger.

_"A life for the Great Eye, that he may deliver us!"_

A halfhearted murmur from a crowd of people, and an anguished cry from a woman screaming in grief.

Pippin looked back as the lion-robed man raised the dagger high into the setting sun. The dagger flashed and fell.

Pippin cried out again. He was being shaken. Suddenly he saw Asouk. They were still by the spring. The dried meat had just fallen from his fingers.

"Razar! What is happening?"

Pippin couldn't say. He wasn't dreaming, he wasn't asleep. But he had seen it, and somehow he knew it, he knew it was real. The sun was high above them, the same sun that glinted _at sunset_ on the dagger in his sight.

"We have to go," he said. He hopped off the boulder and started to run. "Come on! Ngiranimo is just a few hours away, isn't it, if we run?"

"Yes, but why—"

"Come on! We can still save the prisoners!"

"Razar! What are you talking about? What happened to you?"

"I don't know! I'll explain! Hurry!"

* * *

Ngiranimo was built into a sheltered hollow among the brushy foothills of the Elder Mother. Thirty-eight families occupied thirty large, dome-shaped huts and adjacent smaller structures and lean-tos arranged in broad paddocks where dairy cattle were kept and chorework was done, clustered around an open courtyard where feasts and councils had been held in previous days. Those days were gone. Now the courtyard was the site of the altar of the Eye, built on a mound beneath the image of the Eye, and the people of Ngiranimo no longer held happy feasts.

To the side of the courtyard nearer the rock of the mountainside was built the paddock of the kings. There surrounded by smaller huts was the king's house, a large mud building with a high domed roof and many windows. The smaller huts housed wives and children of the king, or kings as it were, for two brothers now ruled Ngiranimo and in a way all the People of the Plains.

The sun was westering over the plains and setting afire the curve of the river when the two kings appeared before the gathered crowd. They both wore lionskin mantles, the tokens of their office, and their faces were painted with white ash and red ochre. The elder's robe was black-maned, the younger's gold. Behind them, the sacrifices were led out and bound to the outstretched arms of the idol of Sauron. Before them, upon the altar, bundles of thorn wood were being laid and drenched in rendered oxfat. A guard of young men armed with spears stood between them and the crowd.

At length the elder of the two brothers stood before the people. He raised his arms and spoke.

"The Eye has turned from us," he said, loud and hoarse. "The Eye is displeased with our worship! For twenty rains now He has cursed us with the scourge of Nekhet. Cursed be the blue soldiers and cursed be their Star."

"Cursed be their Star," responded the people wearily. They had heard this all before. It had never helped.

"Cursed be their Star," said the king, "for the only light is that which comes from the splendor of the deathless Eye!"

"May the Eye find us worthy," was the bitter response, overlying the anguish of those in the crowd whose sons and daughters were bound to the idol's arms. Even the armed guards looked sick of it.

The king looked to his brother in the golden-maned mantle. "Sanao." The brother nodded and motioned for one of the captives to be brought forward. The prisoner chosen, a youth, stared in disbelief as he was led forward to the fire. He began to struggle and kick, but the older man summoned guards, who held him fast and propelled him to the altar.

_"Adban!_"

The cry came from a woman weeping in the thin part of the crowd behind the mound, near the king's house. She wore a necklace of polished stones and beads, and her robe was fine red cloth. She plead with the king with the black mane. "Narok, I beg you, spare him."

"The Eye makes no distinction between highborn and low, Nibo," said the man named Narok imperiously. "Our son will plead for his people before the naked Eye!" The boy Adban was bound to the altar and held there by three men. He begged them to let him go, but they feared the power of the kings.

Narok approached. From beneath his robe he pulled out a dagger made of knapped flint, jagged and sharper than any knife, with a handle made out of _mumakil_ ivory, stained with old blood.

"Turn your gaze upon us, O _Abezoni_, Red Eye of Death," he intoned, raising the dagger. "See the offerings we place before you. Send your mighty gaze upon the invaders who steal our people and slay our kine!"

He gripped the knife handle with both hands, arms upraised, and shouted, "_A life for the Great Eye, that he may deliver us!"_ The boy's mother keened.

_"Stop!"_

Like a cloud the long shadow of a man fell over the altar and the sacrifice. The people gasped and cried out at the apparition standing upon the roof of a hut, his form a shape in the sunset in the west.

"Who is it who speaks when the kings of the People speak?" cried the one named Sanao.

"A man of the People, who has come home!" And Asouk showed his face.

The people murmured his name. "Asouk." They recalled his father. They remembered his mother, the beautiful one, beloved of the people, and they began to call out his name. "Asouk!"

The king named Narok's face also showed recognition, and hate. He jabbed the knife in his half-brother's direction.

"Kill him!"

The armed men gazed at each other, and then rushed to the house. Three threw their spears.

Asouk leapt aside from the flight of one and with his staff slapped the other two away. Then he leapt down into the courtyard and spun the staff so quickly and powerfully that it raised a breeze. The men stopped, daunted.

"Do not obey them," Asouk told them. "They are your enemy, not I."

"Kill him! The Eye commands!" Sanao cried.

Fearful of retribution, they raised their weapons, and attacked Asouk, and Asouk met them with his staff. He spun it, gripped it, thrust and parried with it, left, right, spiraling through their number, catching their jaws, their sides, laying them low like a wind in the reeds, until none were left standing.

Now the prisoners still bound to the idol found that their ropes were being cut from behind. Narok and Sanao spun around and stared in disbelief as, one after the other, the youths and maidens ran from the mound into the crowd and the arms of their loved ones, who were now gazing upon the kings in hate and vengeance.

Narok saw the gaze of the woman Nibo, and remembered the boy on the altar.

"Sanao!" he shouted. "Burn him!"

Sanao nodded and picked up a burning brand. The boy Adban now struggled to free himself from the ropes, his eyes showing terror as his uncle advanced on him, set to burn him alive.

"_Hey, you! Lion-head!_"

The voice came from the idol. Sanao looked up in shock.

A small hand passed over the carven orb of the Eye, followed by another clutching a sword that gleamed like fire in the sunset, as Peregrin revealed his perch atop the statue of Sauron.

"You shouldn't do that," Pippin said, and leapt.

With a kick that sent the idol teetering, he flew into the air, and crashed into the man, knocking the brand from his hands. The man was taller, but soft and unprepared, and Pippin kicked and jabbed him with his fists and knees, flinging him onto his back with a great heave. Sanao tried to stand. On his knees, he lunged for Pippin, and received a hard blow to the back of his head from the solid steel counterweight at the pommel of Pippin's sword. He fell motionless onto the ground.

Pippin leapt onto the altar and sliced through Adban's ropes.

The boy stared in disbelief at the creature standing above him, who looked like a man, but was half as large, and seemingly twice as fierce.

Pippin held out a small, hard hand. "Get up," he said in Bani.

Adban nodded.

But into their path stepped Narok, gripping a spear tipped with a blade of hard flint. Pippin pushed the boy back and held Trollsbane at the ready. Narok roared and lunged at him with the spear. Pippin leapt back.

He pulled his cloak off his shoulders. Narok swung again, but Pippin had only to dip his head for the spear shaft to pass over harmlessly over him. Crouching he flung his cloak towards Narok and at the same time jumped toward the spear.

The elven-cloak flew upon the head of Narok, allowing Pippin to seize the spear and wrench it away with the hurtling strength of his whole weight. Disarmed and blinded, Narok stumbled and fell upon his back.

Struggling to get up, he found the cloak lifted from his head, and saw Pippin holding Trollsbane to his throat.

Asouk ascended the mound and stood next to Pippin. "Good work," he said in Westron.

"It wasn't even difficult."

"Asouk," hissed his brother. "You were supposed to be dead!"

"I am not," Asouk replied. "And I had hoped for a better welcome than the chariots of Nekhet at our borders, and murder in our homestead!"

Narok spit and tried to rise.

"Ah-ah," admonished Pippin in his rudimentary Bani. "Head, blade, dead."

Asouk called to the people. "Bind their hands and place them under guard!" At his command many did his bidding without objection.

Pippin noticed, stepping away and sheathing his sword. He remarked, "I think they've found a king they prefer. What do you think?"

But Asouk was staring at the idol, left unbalanced by Pippin's maneuver. "This should not be here," he said, and took up the spear Pippin had taken from Narok. As Pippin and the people watched, he thrust the spearhead into the soil beneath the base of the idol, grasped the end of the shaft with both hands, and pulled.

The idol creaked, as if in protest, and then began to topple. Built of wood and stone, graven in the image of a god who was no god and who indeed no longer had any power in the world or any other, it fell to the ground with a dull crash and broke into many meaningless pieces.

Pippin remembered his own meeting with Sauron. He had burned in the gaze of that Eye. Gandalf stitched him whole again: whole, but not the same. The dreams would never go away, and now long sight was his as well. He watched the toppling of the idol with satisfaction.

"For Frodo," he murmured, recollecting.

* * *

3.

* * *

They slew a fatted calf for a feast that night, to celebrate the overthrow of Narok and Sanao and the Eye. But Asouk ordered men to bring food and weapons to the outlying village by the Younger Mother. It turned out that several families in Ngiranimo had kin there, including one who recognized Tiso as a cousin. Pippin, when he grasped what was being said, was pleased by that.

After the feast Asouk and the men gathered closer around the fire to drink sorghum beer and talk. Their talk was dominated by the raids of the charioteers from Nekhet. Nekhet's soldiers spread wide throughout the southland and the desert and even into the hill-tribes of the inhospitable rift valley to the east. Slaves who escaped told of being made to build a mountain out of stone, a stepped building high as a hill, around the ancient silver pillar that held the mysterious Noonstar.

"Noonstar?" Pippin piped up. All eyes turned to him. Pippin felt like a fool for interrupting, but then asked, "What is this star?"

Some said it was a true star, come down from heaven. Others said it was a flame of some sort, a beam of sunlight mixed with moonlight. Others said it was a living thing. There was no common answer, except that its light was regarded as magical and unrivaled in all the world, and that it entranced all who gazed upon it.

Asouk was more interested in who was doing all this. "Who is building this stepped mountain?" he wanted to know. "Is it this blue demon?" _Ne te ba ukehora?_

"_Seht_," said the most vocal of the men, Dyomu, a man of rank who had been a hunt-leader under Asouk's father. Pippin remembered he was the father of the woman Nibo, wife of Narok and mother of the boy he'd saved. "Their god of the desert storm that brings death."

"Nekhet has no gods," Asouk said. "Only idols."

"It is not the god Seht," Dyomu responded, "but the sorcerer who speaks in his name."

"And who is this magician?" Asouk asked.

"None know his name," Dyomu reported, "but they say he is of great power, and he holds the mind of the king Osyr; and that the armies wear blue in his honor, for his clothes are always blue."

_The evil of Seht spreads south._ Pippin remembered the words of Zeah from his dream, which he now had to believe was no dream, but a vision of long sight. _Blue_, he thought. That sounded familiar.

"How many of the People have been taken to Nekhet?" Asouk asked.

"Who knows. Many homesteads have been emptied all across the plains over these dark years," said Dyomu.

"How have we fought them?"

"We have not. Your brothers would not allow it. They said the Eye would deliver us."

"The Eye is gone," Pippin interrupted. "He had no power to bestow life, only power to kill."

Many pairs of suspicious eyes fell upon Pippin.

"Who are you?" Dyomu asked with a frown. "What are you? Where do you come from, and what sort of man are you? We are all grateful for what you have done, but I do not know what you are."

"Razar is my ally," Asouk said. "I guided him here, for he is on a great journey to seek all the knowledge in the world. He is a brave warrior and a seer who finds many things in his dreams."

"Then he should speak with a shaman," said Dyomu. "One will tell him many mysteries." He turned to Pippin. "No one but men may sit in this circle and speak. You are no man."

Pippin was about to protest, when Asouk raised a hand.

"He is," Asouk said. From a pouch he produced a long daggerlike tooth, relatively new, its roots still blooded, bound to a leather cord. "This is proof. Here is the tooth of a lion, as all can see. Two moons ago, as we lay upon the shore of bones far to the west, a lion came upon us. If not for Razar, the lion would have devoured me. He killed it with his blade and his courage." He rose, and walked to Pippin, holding the fang aloft. "I have kept it for this moment so that the People may know that Razanur Tuk, little falcon from the north, is a man in our ways."

He knelt, took Pippin's left hand, and placed the tooth upon it, closing the fingers tight upon the totem. To Pippin he added in Westron, "I should have given this to you sooner. They would not have asked."

Pippin accepted it, speechless, and gazed at it in the firelight.

Asouk stood and addressed the men. "I see you have accepted me as king. I take the burden to honor the People and my father. I say to you as king that we must now make a defense against the chariots of Nekhet. We must unite all the villages and homesteads, all the herd-lands and hunting grounds, and defend our homes, our kine, our children and ourselves. If we must walk the Long Valley to Nekhet itself and bring war upon them, then we shall. I say to you what I learned from wise men in the north: Heaven grants blessings upon those who act, not those who wait."

Dyomu stood. "I agree with this. Lead us and I will follow you."

All the men stood. "We will follow you."

Dyomu let out a high, ululating cry, and began to leap up and down in the firelight. The men joined him in the dance, bouncing upon the hard balls of their bare feet, singing in their deep voices, like the sparks that leapt from the flames to the stars above.

Pippin watched, entranced, as Asouk joined them.

* * *

Tonight's dream was simple: the Black Gate again, and the stone troll falling upon him. The darkness. The crushing weight. The inability to breathe. Nothing out of the ordinary, as he sat up, gasping, heart pounding.

He was glad he did not wake the young woman who lay next to him, one of the maidens he had rescued from the altar of the Eye. She had approached him after the meeting with the men and asked him if she could thank him for saving her life. Pippin, feeling like a knight, answered gallantly, "My lady, I am ever at your service," except he said so in Westron, which made her laugh. She asked to see the lion's tooth, proof he was a man in the People's eyes. He showed it, hanging from its cord around his neck. Satisfied, she unbound the cloth of her garment and took him to bed. Pippin put up only token resistance. She wasn't all that much taller, and besides, he knew exactly where to place himself.

Now he slipped quietly from the girl's bed and tiptoed past her sleeping siblings and parents out of the hut. He dressed quickly. What rags he wore. If his mother saw him she would weep, and Vinca would scold. Pippin smiled and pulled on his breeches and the remnants of his shirt. He fastened his sword-belt around his waist, tying it off with a knot. He shook out his cloak and looked at it. It was dirty, but otherwise whole. It had been the most useful piece of clothing he wore throughout the long trek across the plains of the Sun. He folded it up and carried it under his arm.

He took a walk around the sleeping village, pausing to gaze at the remnants of the idol. The wood had been burned for the bonfire at the feast; the stone remnants would be used for other purposes. He kicked some dust on a fragment of the Eye. _Who's in pieces now, Bloodshot?_

Feeling thirsty, he went to the village well, and drew a skinful of water into which he dunked his head to drink. Refreshed, he removed his shirt and threw the rest of the contents of the skin over himself. The sting of the water was cool and bracing as it vanished from his skin into the warm night.

He heard a noise and turned. Something was moving beyond the last hut of the king's corral.

Pippin, not bothering to dry, donned his cloak and fixed it with the brooch. He pulled the hood of his cloak over his head. Slipping into the shadows cast by the bright yet waning moon, he found a trace of the sound he'd heard: two sets of footsteps in the dust. He followed the trail.

At some distance he saw them: the brothers, Narok and Sanao, hands still bound, but legs free, running into the east over the slopes of the Elder Mother.

Now part of Pippin, a still-young but full-fledged hobbit of forty-one, told him to go to Asouk and rouse him, so that they could form a pursuit party to go after the escapees. But Pippin was Pippin. All his age and experience could not quench his rashness; only reinforce it with boldness.

"I can always double back," he told himself, and it was all the convincing he needed, before he set out alone in pursuit of the brothers.

It was too late to go back by the time Pippin admitted to himself this was a bad idea. Dawn was nearing, and the brothers had run, stumbled and walked many miles around north and east over the low slopes of the mountain. Pippin had followed, pausing only to wish he had brought some food for a midnight snack.

Now he saw the brothers run into a small blind valley whose grassy floor was sheltered from wind and sight by bald ridges of old flows. Pippin stopped by a rock when he heard unfamiliar voices raised in anger.

He hid and peered out. He could not see much, but he heard the voices of the brothers, crying out in alarm, and then Narok's voice, hoarse and ugly, rising up in a shout and then stilled. Pippin knew there were Men down there. _Many_ Men. And then he heard horses as well, and he knew what the brothers had stumbled into.

Sanao appeared, running for his life, his cruel face distorted in mortal fear. Pippin shrunk back against the rock as the man ran past. A whistling in the air made Pippin duck out of habit, and Sanao fell, stuck with several blue-feathered arrows.

Pippin hugged the rock against which he hid, flinging his elven-cloak over himself so that he was almost unnoticeable in the shadows and moonlight. He watched through the weft of the cloak as men dressed in the armor of Nekhet picked up Sanao's body and carried it away.

Pippin waited immobile until he was certain the Nekheti had gone. Then he rose and stole his way through the rock and grass to a better vantage over the box valley.

He saw fifty chariots, each drawn by a light-limbed horse, and nearly a hundred soldiers. They were armed with spears, swords, and bows. There were also several wains drawn by teams of four. Pippin realized the wains were cages filled with people.

These were the slavers. He had to return to Ngiranimo now. Maybe there was a chance for the Bani to come upon the Nekheti and surprise them …

In his haste he failed to notice the soldiers approach him from behind until it was too late. With a whisper a net fell upon and entangled him.

"Let me go!" he shouted, and tried to get to his sword.

An officer in slightly different garb, with a headdress bearing the device not of a storm but of a bird in flight, appeared. He held an arrow in his hand. Pippin glared at him in defiance.

He grabbed Pippin's hair and pulled his head back and nicked his neck with the wet tip of the arrow. Pippin felt heat and then a strange numbness. His vision blurred and his head began to swim. The last thing he saw was the men lifting him up and taking him to the waiting chariots. Then the world went away and he saw no more.


	9. Nekhet

_Part IX_

**Nekhet**

* * *

He didn't know it at the outset, when he was thrown into the river barge after a day's ride from the slopes of the Elder Mother, but Pippin was about to embark on the longest of his voyages to date. A thousand miles from the Shire to Minas Tirith. Two hundred leagues across the Bay of Belfalas, a month at an average of five knots into Belegaer, an unknown length of leagues to the Bone Shore, another three hundred leagues across the Plains of the Sun, in six months. He had left Tuckborough in April. It was now September in the Shire. In Buckland Merry was overseeing the harvest in place of his father, and in Great Smials, Diamond was fending off suitors who believed she was widowed.

But Pippin was on a barge among a train of barges with hundreds of other captives, Bani and otherwise, floating down the swift current of the Longest River; and the Longest River was truly the longest in the world, four _thousand_ miles and more from its source upon the side of the Elder Mother to its mouths at the Straits of the World.

The first week of the voyage Pippin constantly tried to save the captives. He plotted scheme after scheme in which somehow he would manage to free all the people locked in the barges, and they would seize the horses upon the last barge, and ride gladly back down to the rolling savannah with their teeming herds and mighty oliphaunts. He failed. They punished him with beatings, whippings, deprivation of food and water. Pippin remained defiant.

He thought he had another chance when the barge train reached the first cataract. Here the great river ran over rock and between boulders, growing white and swift, and the barges had to be portaged around, the slaves marched, until they reached more placid water. Pippin tried to find the most opportune time to break free, as once as a tween he had broken free of the Uruk-hai taking him to Isengard. But there was a fort of Nekheti soldiers at the cataract, and he was quickly recaptured and beaten to submission. It didn't last. He tried it again at the next cataract, and at the next.

At last the captain ordered his lieutenants to chain Pippin in a box on the deck of a small raft at the end of the train, two feet cube, with no windows but the trapdoor lid and nothing inside, nothing, but bare, stained floor. They left him there.

All Pippin could see was himself in the light let in by the slits of the trapdoor. All he could hear was his own breath. He nearly passed out the first day from the heat and the closeness of the air, woken only by the coming of food and water. After a few days all he could smell was himself.

A spirit that had survived, barely, the gaze of Sauron was now trapped in the tiniest of spaces. Imprisonment in the hold of a Corsair ship; shipwreck upon a desert shore; a journey on foot through untamed grasslands; the War of the Ring—none of it seemed as difficult as the silent, reeking, baking box.

He began to see things. Whatever gift or sight had been awakened in him, by the _palantir_ or some lingering trace of magic from wizards or dark lords, in isolation and imprisonment he lost all sembance of control over it. Reality merged with phantasm. Past, present, future, events near and far, all became a single stream of impressions that did not stop even when he closed his eyes or plugged his fingers in his ears or sang until his throat was raw. And still they kept him there, feeding him only occasionally. It was as if the captain had forgotten all about him.

Death, he became convinced, was his only escape. He tried refusing food, but that only ruined him further, for he was already experiencing hunger worse than a Man could survive, and though being a hobbit allowed him to endure it physically, his very nature made it doubly excruciating. When next watery food came, a watery gruel of barley meal, he threw himself at it and lapped it up like a calf.

In a moment of seeming lucidity, he wondered if he could strangle himself with the rags that were once his clothes; but then his mother arrived and scolded him, and Merry's father gave him the belt, and Gandalf threw him to Sauron who strapped his hands onto this burning jewel and they all had a party with fireworks as the light consumed his flesh, so Pippin didn't strangle himself. He stopped doing anything at all.

Finally, even as the barge train emerged from forty days in the wilderness into the green Valley, the Nekheti captain was told the white imp thing was still alive. Horrified, the captain ordered the boat pulled in, and opened the box.

* * *

2.

* * *

Pippin did not die, but he came close, and the Grey Lady was close at hand when finally his body rejected collapse and began to rebuild itself. He was a hobbit; half as large as a Man and at least twice as hard to kill.

When he opened his eyes, he saw a multitude of figures above him. He blinked, and realized he was gazing at a plaster ceiling covered in painted pictures. Men and women with golden-brown skin moved through fields of grain and flocks of donkeys and goats. They fished upon the river. They fought crocodiles and fat riverhorses. They worshipped their gods. Pippin saw a picture of a bird in flight, wings outstretched, the wings of a hawk or falcon, crowned by a star.

He was in a house. Pippin tried to move, and found that, though weak, he could sit up a little. He was lying on a hard bed with carved legs that resembled catspaws. The thin mattress seemed to be made of hay or reeds—it rustled when he shifted. But the bedclothes were cotton, and the smoothest of their kind he had ever felt, far superior to even the textiles of the Eastfarthing, almost like the satin of Gondor, sweet and cool against his body. The warm, dry air was perfumed by a stick of burning incense. A low laver filled with water sat upon a pedestal with some damp washcloths hanging nearby. A pitcher stood next to it. The light from the tall, narrow windows said it was late in the afternoon. Every wall was decorated with the painted pictures.

Pippin realized he was unbound, and he saw no doors, only curtains, to keep him barred. Was he that weak, that they wouldn't think him capable of walking out of here? He started to smirk, and then remembered the box.

Pippin retched. Nothing came out. His stomach heaved in his shrunken belly. As if his mind were an opened sluice, he recalled the heat, the smell, the madness. For a moment it seemed madness was about to overtake him again, and he threw himself back down into the bed, his face pressed into the bolster, clutching at his elbows, whimpering in fear.

The footsteps made him stop. Soft, bare, they passed through a rustle of curtain fabric and neared the bed on which he lay.

Pippin spun into a crouch, teeth bared, fists balled, and snarled at the woman who had come to him.

But the woman only raised her hand, and spoke in a low and firm voice, and it sank into Pippin's mind that he understood her. She was speaking Adunaic.

"Be not afraid," she was saying. "I am Yses, Queen of Nekhet, and I have been tending you for many days."

The ordeal of the barge had stripped Pippin of almost every vestige of civilization and identity. It took a long moment for him not only to understand that this queen was speaking to him, but that he understood her, and could think, and speak, in return. What he said first had nothing to do with where he was, what had happened to him, or why a queen would be tending a prisoner of her own soldiers in what seemed to be her own chambers.

Instead, as he reckoned together the words of the old tongue of Númenor from what he had read in old texts, all he wanted to know was, "Can I have some food?"

* * *

"This is a paste of boiled dates," said Yses, handing Pippin a dish containing a honey-brown gruel. "Sweet and nutritious. There is also unleavened bread, if you can stomach it, or perhaps some barley gruel …"

Pippin stopped shoveling the dates into his mouth with his fingers and said, "No gruel, I beg you." He would never be able to eat oatmeal again. But the date paste was rich and mealy and he devoured it hungrily.

Yses watched him eat with a soft smile. Pippin guessed she was perhaps middle-aged, with her bosoms and arms beginning to soften, but she was still a beautiful woman. She seemed familiar to him, but he didn't know why that should be so. Perhaps it was how she mothered him. She looked nothing like Eglantine, though.

A noise outside the bedchamber made him tense. Yses also heard it. She gave Pippin a silencing look and rose. Pippin saw she had a dagger inserted in the folds at the back of her gown.

"Almas?" she called.

Pippin understood the reply—_Yes_—but not the rest of it, spoken in a language that seemed based on Adunaic but as different from it as Westron was.

Yses looked at him again, and then said in Adunaic, "He has awoken."

Pippin saw the shadow of a young woman fall upon the curtain entrance, and then part, revealing a slender young woman, perhaps five and a half feet tall, with dark hair and almond-shaped eyes.

It was the girl from his dreams.

"Zeah," he said before he could stop himself.

Both women gazed at him, startled. The young woman whom Yses had called Almas glared at him. "How do you know my name?" she demanded furiously, and Pippin was taken aback again, for she had spoken in Westron.

But before Pippin could explain, he heard another set of footsteps, and tensed all over again. Then he heard the voice, familiar and male, and his fingers tightened into claws.

Yses tried to intervene. "Captain!" she warned, "now is not an acceptable time," but she was too late. Pippin saw the man, shaved head and clean-shaven, slim and well-built, with light brown eyes and black-rimmed eyelids, wearing a kilt of blue linen and blue armor under a cloak of pard-skins and cloth. It was the man who had captured him, the captain of the Nekheti soldiers who had led the sortie south. Pippin only had to hear his voice and see his face to find some strength in his weakened body and launch himself upon the man.

The two women had to pull him away, both of them surprised at the sudden strength in his limbs, but Pippin didn't care. He had no thought other than to cause pain, as much pain as he could offer, with his bare hands and nails and teeth.

"Razar!" Yses cried. "Master yourself! You are acting like a beast!"

Pippin found words. "He _made_ me a beast!" he snarled, kicking and struggling against them. "He put me in a box where I had to lie in my own _shit_ and left me to go crazy from the heat and the darkness!" His language lapsed from Adunaic to Westron to the foulest of Orcish.

He broke free from the women and leapt upon the man, knocking him down into the curtain, which fell upon them, as he struck the man across the face again and again, cutting the man's lips and drawing blood from his nose before reaching to choke the man's neck. The man grabbed Pippin's wrists and held him back, but Pippin grunted and growled and bit the man's cheek.

Blood welled up against his teeth. Pippin tasted it and realized what he was doing.

He beheld himself as if from afar with horror and revulsion. Hunched over, bestial, biting and drooling and cursing and strangling, all ropy muscle and wildly gleaming eyes…. Bile rose in his throat and he choked, crawling off the prone man into a corner of the room. He pulled up his legs, ashamed of his nakedness before the women, and more ashamed of his behavior. He covered his face and head with his arms and wept with wide eyes.

"I want to go home," he heard himself say, and he saw again his mother and father and sisters, the big, roomy Whitwell farmhouse, the sheep in the lower meadow, the hayfields high in summer, Merry smiling at him, Merry hugging him, Merry ruffling his curls and spitting on a scraped knee and fixing the scarf his mother gave him for his twenty-first birthday along with his first big jacket with deep pockets…. And more: he remembered the smell of pipeweed and the strange taste of fine wine mulled over an embering fire, Merry's favorite waistcoat against his cheek as they listened to Frodo read them a story … all that simple life. He had gone too far. This painted room, these strange people, this babel of tongues on his tongue; he wasn't even a hobbit anymore, was he? A hobbit was jolly and fat and contented to see only well-tilled earth and nothing more. He was once a hobbit, but now was a lean, starved thing that was once a hobbit, who had wandered too far from the fields and streams of youth.

Sick-sweet liquid rose from his gut into his throat. He choked again and knew who he sounded like.

_Gollum, gollum._

He felt a hand fall upon his curls. He hesitatingly looked up. Almas—Zeah—the beautiful young woman standing next to him was stroking his hair. She held one of the sheets from the bed, and asked with her eyes, and then at his motionlessness draped it over his nakedness and clothed him in the clean white raiment. She knelt, and inclined her head, and smiled at him, and then with the backs of her fingers wiped his cheeks dry.

The queen had given a small washcloth to the man he had attacked. The man looked now in his direction and went to him. Pippin gazed up at him with fear and distrust and confusion.

The man spoke Adunaic so Pippin could understand. "I have wronged you," he said, with the precision of someone speaking an old and disused tongue. "My life belongs to you."

And from beneath his cloak to Pippin's wide eyes he produced Trollsbane in the scabbard of Gondor.

"This also belongs to you," he added, and knelt, and closed his eyes, and bared his throat.

Pippin stopped crying. He wobbled to his feet, the white cloth draping around him like a robe. On unsteady feet he stood and looked at his sword and then grasped Trollsbane's hilt with both hands.

"Small one," said the queen, "this man has my trust. He delivered you unto me in secret for healing and succor, when he could have let you die, or given you to the jackals, or taken you to he who is our enemy."

She watched Pippin draw sword, and went on speaking. "He has repented of his deeds and forsworn our enemy," said Yses. "Know that ere you judge him. He is the captain of the fifth regiment, the Queen's Guards. His name is Mery."

The first lesson of swordfighting—never let go—was all that kept Pippin from dropping Trollsbane in shock. As it was, the blade sank down, and Pippin with it.

Pippin stared at the floor for a long time. The man named Mery watched him, and then lowered the black scabbard onto the floor before him, waiting.

Finally Pippin looked up. Then with an anguished cry he raised his sword and brought it down upon the man before him, and then stopped, gasping for breath.

A trickle of blood welled up where Trollsbane's edge had touched Mery's skin. Pippin had brought down the flat of the blade upon his shoulder.

Pippin sat down, exhausted, and sheathed Trollsbane. It was Yses herself who poured them both cups full of cool water. Pippin drank without stopping.

* * *

3.

* * *

As Pippin recuperated, he discovered he had fallen in with a conspiracy.

Yses was the wife of the ruling king, or _phar_. Osyr was her cousin and they had wed as children, as was the custom of Nekhet. Osyr had taken the throne in the midst of upheaval, for his uncle, Yses's father, had usurped the throne and attempted to install the god of the desert wanderers as the supreme god above all others. The resulting strife nearly devastated the Valley. In the disarray, the young Osyr had found wisdom and power following the advice of a wandering magician who called himself Sehty, the Man of Seht, the god of the desert storm. Under Sehty's guidance and the blue swirl of Seht, Osyr triumphed.

In gratitude for the favor of Seht and Sehty's guidance, Osyr raised the cult of Seht to the prime cult of the Valley, and named Sehty high priest of the capital. Sehty had accepted the position with gratitude and humility, which is more than could be said of the priests of the other gods. They questioned how Seht, the dark god who arises in strength, could claim lordship over the shrine of the Noonstar and Nekhet, the City of the Hawk.

To placate them, Sehty unveiled plans to build a new temple, one that would bridge darkness and light, the bowels of the earth and the lights of heaven. He called it the Stairway, like a mountain made of mud baked into bricks and builded, surrounding the Star and magnifying its power, opening the road from the mortal lands to the land of the gods.

Even after all he had seen and heard in his life, Pippin thought this was absurd. From the windows of the house he could see the Stairway, built in five levels, each with a hundred stairs, leading up to a steep-sided apex where at night the beam of the Noonstar's light blazed into the sky. How could a structure of mud brick make a jewel, no matter how magical, into some sort of key to heaven? It was absurd.

Absurd or not, the people of Nekhet threw themselves into the work, and when their enthusiasm flagged—for Sehty wished it finished in time for the next total darkening of the sun visible over the Valley—Sehty advised the army to bring more workers all over the Valley. Yses had been appalled by this, but her husband felt indebted to the high priest and allowed Sehty to issue orders in his name. Yses was grieved at Osyr's decision, but said nothing.

Then Sehty began to send the army outside the Valley. The army, Mery among them, who had long existed to defend against the hostile tribes of the northern highlands and the nomads of the desert west, now went among them taking slaves for conscripted work. When even that dried up, the army ventured south.

As for Almas, whose name truly was Zeah, she told Pippin she was captured several weeks ago in the city while she aimed to steal back her horse. Being an Erite, one of the hated desert people, she was sold into slavery. Mery noticed her and brought her to the attention of Yses.

Yses had secretly maintained sympathy for her heretic father's love of the Erite god, and she refused to see this proud girl sold to some disreputable merchant or nobleman. She purchased her herself, and took her into service as both maid and—when she found Zeah's skills at swordsmanship—as her bodyguard.

When Mery brought the near-dead Pippin in secret to Yses, and confessed his remorse and hatred for Sehty and the cult of Seht, the conspiracy was born. The Queen, the officer, and the slave girl began to plot the overthrow of the blue-garbed sorcerer.

* * *

Pippin peeked out the bottom of the narrow window again, facing north, as he had grown fond of doing during his stay in the Queen's House. Nekhet was two cities on either side of the great bend where the river turned east to its eventual mouths. The old city clung to the cliffs of the west-north bank, settled from time immemorial as the Desert was born. The new city, only a thousand or so years old, rose on the southeast bank, broader and extending out into the riverbend.

The royal houses and the army's fortresses were located on the southeast bank of the river. Above the old city, upon the cliff edge dotted with the tombs of Nekhet's rulers, was the Stairway, almost complete. From its apex a beam of light lanced the darkness: the light of the Noonstar of Nekhet, now concealed within.

"What are you thinking of, Pippin?"

Pippin smiled over his shoulder at Almas. Zeah. "I haven't heard my name said right in a long time," he said. "Helps me remember who I am."

"My uncle was a trader," said Zeah, joining him. "I learned Westron from him."

"Your people must travel widely."

"When you are unwanted in every place, no place can keep you."

They gazed out together for a long time, upon the city and the valley. Zeah's gaze was far-reaching, and it seemed to Pippin she was looking with longing upon the desert beyond the cliffs, beyond the Stairway and the light of the Star. She was homesick. He knew how she felt.

He took her hand boldly.

She looked at him, and then chuckled, ruffled his curls, and walked away.

Humiliated, Pippin turned back to the window.

"Pippin."

She had paused, and her smile was unmistakable.

"Come join our lady and the captain for water."

"Oh!" said Pippin. "Are we plotting tonight?"

Zeah laughed. "Yes, we are." She held out her hand to him. "Come with me."

Pippin hurried to her side. He took her hand gallantly and together they went.

The tentative plan was to stage an uprising on the eve of the next eclipse of the sun, which would be in nine weeks according to the records of the astrologers. At this time the people of the Valley would normally congregate at Nekhet to pray under the light of the Noonstar that both Sun and Moon would be released from the clutches of _Akek_, the Serpent of Darkness. Sehty planned the opening of the Stairway at that time, when the Noonstar had no rival. Mery would rouse sympathetic elements in the army while Yses both secretly and then in open as the Queen stirred the noble houses and the common people.

Pippin decided to tell them about Asouk and the Bani. "My friend is somewhat versed in battle," he said. He had been learning Nekheti, and between Zeah, Mery, and Yses, they all found ways to understand each other. "You may find your southern travels a bit more difficult since my capture."

"It would be better if they could come here and join us," Mery replied. "But the desert is long and the river dangerous in the highlands."

"Don't underestimate them," Pippin replied shortly. "Do you have enough supporters for your little uprising?"

Yses and Mery glanced at each other.

Zeah answered. "They do not. That is why I will go to my people and bring them here."

"You cannot be certain they will follow you," Mery said.

"They will follow my father," Zeah averred.

"Your father?" asked Pippin.

"My father is the prophet of Er," Zeah answered. "He speaks with Er upon His mountain, and all our people follow his wisdom." She turned back to the queen and the officer. "If my father calls for a war against the Valley, then I promise you, a thousand warriors will emerge from the sands and come to Nekhet."

"Almas, I do not wish your people to come as if all the Valley were under holy ban," Yses told her. "Our enemy is the cult of Seht and Sehty Al-Atar his priest."

_Sehty Al—? _"Say again?" Pippin piped up, his voice sounding distant even to himself.

The three conspirators seemed not to have noticed his demeanor. "Sehty," Yses said.

"No …" Pippin frowned. Al-Atar. In Great Smials he'd begun to borrow Númenórean texts and books from Arnor and Gondor, having copies made for the Thain's library, and he had come across that name, he knew it. Where? Gandalf would have known …

Gandalf. Saruman. Radagast. The rods of the Five Wizards …

_Oh no._

"Alatar," Pippin said again, aloud. Yses, Mery and Zeah all now saw his expression.

"We call him Sehty, 'man of Seht'," said Mery. "But I have heard the Phar call him Al-Atar. Perhaps that is his birth name."

"No," said Pippin. "Not birth. That's what the Elves called him."

"The _dejin_?" Zeah said with suspicion. "Can they be trusted?"

"Yes," Pippin said, a little hotter than he had intended.

Zeah looked dubious, as did the others. Pippin remembered that the Nekheti were descended from Númenóreans, and wondered if Phazan their first king had come after the estrangement of the Elves and the Númenóreans. But why should Zeah mistrust them?

Yses spoke. "You know who our enemy is," she guessed.

Pippin nodded. His head was spinning. Of all the things he had dreamed he'd find in the many journeys he had imagined, this was not one of them. Not at all. He stared at the three conspirators. They had no idea of who they were up against.

"Alatar is a Wizard," Pippin said. "One of five sent from the Blessed Realm in the West. I don't know exactly what they are, but they are not Men, nor Elves neither. They have the bodies of old men, but they've lived for thousands of years, and they have real power, real magic. I've known two. One was the greatest of them, and he used his power to make himself a lord of Men, and he caused war and ruin before he fell. The other was … my friend." He kept his composure. "Anyway. From what you've told me, Alatar has followed Saruman. You're fighting a Wizard, milady, and no mere man at all."

* * *

In the silence that followed all that could be heard was the sighing of the desert wind through the cracks and crevices of the rapidly cooling cliffs. Then Zeah spoke.

"Can these wizards be killed?" she asked coolly, and Pippin was reminded of Diamond.

Pippin thought of Gandalf on the Bridge of Khazad-dum. Then he thought of Saruman at Bag End. His sword hand twitched. He had always envied Wormtongue that kill.

"Dead enough," he replied, looking Zeah in her dark amber eyes.

Later that evening, before Pippin went to bed, Yses stopped by to speak with him. In her hands she held a folded sheaf of paper.

"I am grateful for your aid," she said. "Knowing is half the battle, as my husband was wont to say."

Pippin was touched. "Lucky for all of us I ended up with you," he said.

"We do not believe in luck," Yses replied. "We believe in what we call the right order, the feather of truth; and Almas … Zeah would say it is the will of Er."

Pippin shrugged. He didn't know about things like that. Although he would think that if it was willed he should end up with Yses by the efforts of Mery, he would rather not have experienced the box in the barge.

He looked on in surprise as Yses deposited the papers in his lap. They were old, and seemed to be made of the leaves of the plentiful reeds that grew along the banks of the river. They were covered in writing.

"Can you read this?" she asked him.

Pippin opened the document. It was a single sheet, folded many times, with pages full of writing on each surface. The script was clearly Tengwar, though in an archaic style; the language was Adunaic.

"Yes," he replied. "What is it?"

"This is a copy of the record of Phazan of Westernesse, first Phar of the Valley," she said. "We know it is in the Old Tongue, but we have lost the ability to decipher the writing. Please read it and tell me what it says, before you go."

Pippin looked up at her. "How did you know I still wished to go?"

"Only a guess," Yses replied. "You wish to leave with Almas."

Pippin folded the document before replying. "The Erites know the way to Umbar," he said. "If I can get there, I can find my way home."

"I do not think that is the only reason you wish to accompany her, _Razanur_."

Pippin blushed but said nothing.

Yses made to depart. "Good reading, and then sleep well."

"Good night, milady," Pippin replied.

* * *

4.

* * *

Pippin lay on the bed staring into the darkness, unable now to sleep. He wasn't afraid of any dreams or visions. They had stopped. Reality, if he could call it that, had superseded it.

He leapt off the bed and padded to the nearest window and looked out. The Stairway was almost finished. Even at this time of night, construction went on. Its sides were lit by torchlight, but near the top, where it remained open, no torch or lamp was necessary. The light of the Noonstar was more than enough, lancing into the night, slaying the darkness.

Pippin remembered a visit to Bag End when he was very young, before Bilbo went away. Merry was there with his parents, and Pippin was with them, and the lads had begged Bilbo for a story. Bilbo made as if to protest, but finally relented.

"Let me go fetch a book," he said, getting up.

Saradoc and Esmeralda begged off storytelling and went to their room. As Esmeralda passed by, Bilbo remarked once more about her lovely new pendant of her namesake stone. Saradoc beamed and boasted of how much it cost from the dwarf who'd made it.

When Bilbo sat down, he didn't open the book he'd chosen. Rather, he leaned back, and then asked Merry and Pippin, "Would you like to hear the story of the Great Jewels of the Elves?"

"Yes!" Merry cried, having heard it before. "That's the greatest story of all!"

"Well, so far," said Bilbo with a wink. "And you, pipsqueak?"

Pippin had been ten. "Oh yes please absolutely do cousin Bilbo!"

From the kitchen, where he had been helping with the dishes, emerged Frodo. "Are you sure that's not too heavy a tale for the lads, Bilbo?"

"Nonsense," said Bilbo. "What's the use of passing down stories if you can't tell them to children? Especially the important stories?" Bilbo beckoned Frodo and cuffed him gently on his cheek. "I told them all to you whenever I visited, didn't I? You turned out all right."

"I doubt the great families of the Shire would agree with you."

"Hang them. You're fine."

"But what about these two?" Frodo teased, dropping down gracefully next to his cousins. He seized Pippin and pulled him into his lap and reached under Pippin's shirttails and tickled Pippin's tummy. Pippin squealed and giggled and attempted to box Frodo's nose.

Merry helpfully seized Pippin's ankle. "I think I'm quite mature enough to hear it," he said meanwhile to Bilbo. "After all, I've read it myself."

"But you should hear Mr. Bilbo tell it," said Sam, emerging also from the kitchen. Seeing Merry's frown, he blushed and said, "Not that you need to be listening to me, Mr. Merry sir."

Frodo gave Merry a hard pinch. "Ow!" Merry protested, but Frodo's look quelled him. Pippin observed it and then pinched Merry too.

"All right, settle down," Bilbo said. "Do you wish to hear it too, Samwise?"

"Come here, Sam," said Frodo. "Sit by me."

"That's all right, Mr. Frodo," said Sam, taking a stool and placing it at the periphery of the firelight. "This will do for me just fine."

"Tell it!" Pippin insisted loudly. "Come on, Bilbo! I want to hear all about the Big Jools."

"Let me have him, Frodo," Merry said. "I'll choke him if he tries anything."

"All right," said Bilbo again. He became quiet, and it seemed his features changed, became fair and mysterious in the firelight. "Now this is the story of Fëanor and Fingolfin and their mighty kindred. Of how Fëanor captured the light of the Two Trees in three mighty gems. How these gems were stolen by the dark power of the North, and the great wars fought by the Noldor to get them back."

He gazed at each of them in turn, four pairs of wide eyes, brown, hazel, blue, green. "This is the story of the _Silmarils_!" he exclaimed, and being ten years old, Pippin gasped.

* * *

Now forty-one years old with thousands of miles behind him and pieces of his life and self strewn across each one, Pippin looked out from the narrow palace window across the sleeping houses and streets, across the valley and the river to the made mountain and the jewel that was now trapped within, waiting for an eclipse of the sun to make some unknown magic at the hand of an unknown wizard. The story of the Silmarils never had ended. One shone in the sky, and the light of it shone from the star-glass in his cousin's hand, in his cousin's eyes, as Frodo left forever. Another was cast into the fires of the earth, and was now buried in the heart of the world.

A third was thrown into the sea. It too was supposed to be lost forever. But instead it was found by a prince of Númenor, who was wrecked upon this shore, and now it was here. His vision upon Meneltarma was corroborated by the words of the prince himself that he had just read. He had stepped right back into a story that had yet to end.

_What have I gotten myself into?_

He went back to bed and turned onto his side, rubbing his cheek into the embroidery upon the bolster. He thought long and lingeringly about Zeah, in her own chamber no doubt, sleeping the sleep of the just. He envied her. He closed his eyes and pictured her: her beauty, her steel, the slimness of her waist, the curve of her hips, the shape of her under her garment, her eyes … Eventually he fell asleep, but instead of Zeah, he dreamed of Diamond.


	10. Sehty

_Part X_

**Sehty**

* * *

"This is a bad idea," muttered Zeah, but went ahead and smiled at the merchant in Nekhet's marketplace.

The cutler at his booth grinned broadly at her. "And what may interest your lady this morning, lovely? A lovely set of forks perhaps, in untarnished bronze, with lapis lazuli in the handles." He held open the case of the utensils. "Note the difference," he added with a gleam in his eye. "Three tines, not two." He smiled. "My own innovation."

"Truly ingenious," Zeah replied. "But my lady is interested in purchasing a simple dagger for her, ah, foundling."

The cutler looked down at the slim little figure swathed in a grey cloak and a well-wound turban that was so big it covered his ears. He blinked, for he hadn't noticed it standing there before. "Ah," said the cutler, maintaining his smile. "Indeed. And where did Her Majesty come upon such an ugly—that is, adorable lad?"

"South," said Zeah. "May he choose?"

"Why, certainly," said the cutler. He gestured at a set of small, blunt knives in copper and brass. "Here are some lovely pieces … aargh!"

He stared as the "lad" hefted a guardsman's saber with an eight-inch blade gleaming dull yellow. "This!" said the foundling in a high, piping voice. "This one! This one!"

The cutler stuttered. "Surely the Queen would prefer her pet, ah, her guest have a much more appropriate—"

"Surely we would think so," agreed Zeah with a knowing sigh, "but since the Phar has cloistered himself with the great plans for the Stairway, my lady must have her amusements. How much?"

The cutler kept his eye on the short sunbaked imp who was trying to juggle the knife. "Three bushels of barley at the granary," he managed to say.

Zeah raised her eyebrows past her veil. "Really? Three?"

"The bronze is high quality," said the cutler, clutching his throat as the high-quality bronze dagger spun in the sun to the endangerment of passersby before it was caught.

"Razar," Zeah scolded. "You'll hurt yourself." She smiled apologetically at the cutler. "He's a bit stupid."

"Two," said the cutler. "Two bushels, for the honor of Her Majesty," he said.

"Done," said Zeah. She took out a piece of paper and a piece of charcoal and inscribed two dots, a grain character, and Yses's name. "Thank you very much!"

"Thank you, O vision of loveliness," said the cutler, turning pale as it appeared the little desert rat was dismembering an invisible opponent. He wondered what sort of amusements the royal household was enjoying these days.

* * *

Hurrying down the marketplace Zeah and Pippin ducked into an alley and removed their masks and veils, bending over in laughter. Pippin was laughing so hard he dropped to both knees and rolled against the wall.

"Pippin!" Zeah said, crawling up to his face and pointing at his nose, smothering her glee and failing. "You should not draw attention to yourself!"

Pippin stifled his giggles but couldn't stop smiling, his cheeks crinkled in hilarity. "I know, I know, I'm sorry," he said. "I couldn't help it! I wanted to see the look on his face!"

"Rubbish. You took offense when he called you ugly."

"I most certainly did not. I took pity on a man who obviously has had his eyes weakened by the sun. I happen to be quite a handsome specimen, if a bit on the thin side."

"I'm sure women throw themselves at you back in your home country."

"Ah. Yes. They do."

Zeah threw back her head and laughed. The edge of her veil fell back a little, and the sun was caught in her raven tresses.

"Ah, Pippin!" she said, shoving him playfully. "You little fool. I cannot believe I let you talk me into letting you come with me."

Pippin blinked away the vision of Zeah in the sunlight and responded brightly, "I was wasting away in there. Besides, these clothes hide my ears and feet nicely." He had received a new outfit from Yses, including Nekheti wear, a long, light tunic in Erite style, and new breeches and a vest that could be closed into a sleeveless shirt. Now he was wearing the breeches and the vest and the tunic, which was long enough to obscure his feet. He had also gotten his elven-cloak back, cleaned and like new. The turban was not part of the gifts, but a disguise he had adopted for this excursion.

"It's good you've hid your hair," Zeah said now, handing him a root-cake. "Red is not the most fortunate color in the Valley."

Pippin ate the cake and received another. "My hair isn't red. It's chestnut." He paused, frowned, and pulled down a wayward curl from the tousle at the front. "Well, it used to be." He investigated, muttering to himself. " … gold? Since when …?"

"Your hair is red enough for me," said Zeah. "Seht's hair is red."

"Oh, is it?" asked Pippin, munching a cake with one hand and examining his hair with the other.

"He has the head of a wild ass and the tusks of a wild boar."

"So he's an ass and a bore?"

"And a riverhorse."

"Hum." Pippin was becoming concerned with his hair. "But hobbits don't go bald …"

Zeah's eyes sparkled like gems, and her teeth were a string of pearls beneath her face covering. "_Pippin_."

"_Zeah_," Pippin responded. He brushed the crumbs off his new clothes and cocked his head at her. "Or is it Almas?"

Zeah, about to hand him a fig for dessert, paused, fruit in hand, scowling slightly. "Almas is a cover."

"Oh, I don't know … it sounds rather nice to me. What does it mean?"

Before Zeah could answer their attention was diverted by a beautiful song coming from somewhere in the marketplace. The singer possessed a voice like a tempered clarion, or a strummed harp, and Pippin and Zeah both gathered up their things, obscured their faces, and went to seek the source of the music.

To Pippin the song was entrancing for more than its beauty. He thought he knew its melody, and he could almost comprehend its strange words, in a tongue that was foreign, but familiar, and fairer than any he had ever heard. He pushed between the onlookers like a child, until he emerged from the throng to find the singer seated upon a small bench, strumming a harp.

The singer wore a brown pilgrim's cloak with a heavy hood that barely revealed his face. His hands were graceful and his fingers long and precise as they picked notes from the harp. The singer was smiling as he sang, and glancing from time to time at his audience, drawing them into his sad and sweet elegy. But when Pippin appeared at the forefront of the audience, the singer looked directly at him. Pippin found himself bathed in grey eyes of immense depth. The look lingered for only a moment longer than any of the others, then passed on, leaving Pippin needing a moment to clear his head.

That was when he felt it: a presence, a thought, in his mind. Another mind was probing him. It was probing them all, actually, he could sense, and Pippin followed the thread of its power like an ant investigating a thicket of vines. For an instant Pippin perceived its desire: _the jewel_; and then it realized he was aware of its presence, and sought for him in return. Alarmed, Pippin's thought retreated, and then, with the instinct noted long ago by Faramir, cast the stranger out.

The singer paused, and the crowd around him groaned aloud as the spell of the song was broken. The singer smiled apologetically, and made to resume, when a platoon of soldiers were heard coming down the avenue.

The audience broke up into chaos, men, women and children scurrying out of the way of the soldiers, wearing not only blue armor but also the blue paint of the Temple Guard. Pippin looked up at the soldiers as he held his place through the scattering people. He looked for the singer, but he was gone; only his stool remained, knocked over in the dirt. Pippin turned to look for Zeah, but he could not see her either.

The soldiers were coming. Pippin crouched down and pocketed some pebbles and rocks from the sandy dirt, and then stole away to a hiding place among some tall earthen jars.

The soldiers stopped. One of them, the officer, wore a bronze circlet over his helmet. "Search for him!" he ordered, and the soldiers dispersed.

_They are looking for the singer_, Pippin thought. He began to turn away and head back through the city to the barge quay and the Queen's House on the southeast bank.

Then he heard the wail. Hurrying down the end of the little alley, he peeked around the corner, and saw a young girl and a little boy with a pair of the soldiers. They had been with him listening at the front of the audience. One of the soldiers had taken the girl's arm and was twisting it hard.

"Where did he go?" the soldier demanded.

The girl was weeping. "I don't know!" she sobbed. The little boy was wailing, and the other soldier advanced on it, arm ready to strike.

"Be quiet, you!"

From her hiding place appeared Zeah, her chin jutted defiantly. "Leave them alone!"

Pippin blinked. What was she doing? His hand went to his new-bought dagger.

The soldier holding the girl let go and threw her aside. The girl took the boy and fled. Zeah stood forth, her hands as fists at her side. The two soldiers glanced at her, then smiled to each other and approached.

Zeah kicked loose a post from a nearby booth and took it in both hands as a weapon.

The soldiers grew annoyed, and then angry. They drew their curved swords.

Pippin let go of his knife and dug in his pocket for the pebbles. He slipped them into his right hand and peeked out again.

The soldiers charged. Zeah swung her makeshift staff. But both soldiers cried out before they reached her, clutching their empty sword hands, where red welts had already risen from the sting of hard-thrown stones.

Zeah seemed almost bewildered when Pippin, dashing past, took her hand.

"Come on!" he cried.

* * *

2.

* * *

The soldiers chased them through the marketplace. Every time they tried to hide, they lost their pursuers; as soon as they emerged, blue soldiers were once again at their heels. Pippin ran ahead, darting around heavy-wheeled carts, recalcitrant donkeys, and merchants and vendors and passersby. Right behind him, Zeah created difficulties for the soldiers, knocking down stools, turning over tables, creating havoc. "Over here!" Pippin called, already halfway up a ladder. Zeah nodded and then overturned a table of fresh fish and another of fruit.

Pippin helped Zeah to the roof. "_Two_ tables? Isn't that a bit excessive?"

But Zeah was looking down the other road. "Trouble," she said, and grabbed Pippin by the collar and ran across the roof. "Jump!" she said.

Pippin cried, "Where?" but it was too late.

They landed on a sheaf of hay and tumbled to the ground amid the meat market. Getting to their feet they found themselves in a small surround with only two exits, and both quickly filled with soldiers.

"Hide!" said Zeah.

"I won't leave you!"

"You must! I will be all right."

"But—"

"I can explain myself!" she hissed. "Can you?"

Pippin set his chin, and then vanished.

He found a hiding-place and watched as Zeah raised her arms in surrender. "I serve queen Yses," she said as the officer approached, but the officer seemed to recognize her.

"You," said the officer. "So it is Her Majesty who bought you, Erite."

"Khartamun," Zeah replied coolly, seeing the officer who had captured her in the first place. "We must be fated to meet, having met so often."

She flinched as Khartamun put the inner curve of his sword against her neck. "I should kill you now, just for the enjoyment of it," he said.

"Do so," Zeah replied, "and you will owe the Queen the price of one of her handmaidens."

Khartamun was a violent man, and he had no love for Yses, but even he did not wish to so openly flout the Queen's name. "I do not trust you, girl," he said, "but I must honor a greater power."

"How wise of you," Zeah said.

Khartamun glared at her. "As must you!"

She gasped as her hands were bound and her veil used to gag her.

"As must the Queen," Khartamun added. "All will bow before Seht!" He raised his arm in the direction of the Temple of Seht. "Take her to Sehty!"

* * *

Pippin followed them at a discreet distance. A hobbit can be easily overlooked if he wants to be, even in a foreign land, and Pippin was ignored or unseen as he followed the party across the river, hiding inside a large basket on a public barge, creeping along the gutters, alleys, and occasionally roofs of the new city until he got to the Temple of Seht.

The Temple was once dedicated to all the gods of Nekhet, but during Yses's father's reign he had decreed all the other idols smashed and in its place be lit the great Fire of Er. When Osyr deposed him and restored the gods, the Temple was rededicated to Seht and became the residence and center of power for his priests. It stood upon the rear of the Valley's eastern rim, built of mud brick like a long slab, with a row of wooden pillars extending from its entrance to a high altar before it where Sehty conducted addresses and, lately, sacrifice of blood as well as water. A low wall bound the entire compound.

Pippin covered his face with the hood of his cloak and crept along the edge of wall where it was shadowed by the afternoon sun. He watched Khartamun march Zeah up to the temple doors and through the threshold into the darkness within. Pippin, who had never considered going back to the safety of the Queen's House and reporting to Yses, was about to attempt to breach the Temple when he heard Mery's voice over the wall.

He rose and stole a peek. Mery was walking with some of his officers in the grounds before the King's House, next to the Temple.

"Hey there!" Pippin called out loudly, and dropped to the ground. He counted to five, and then peeked over the edge of the wall again, and waved.

Soon Mery was there, pretending to stand by the wall. "What are you doing here?" he whispered.

"Zeah's been captured by the Temple Guard."

"_What?_"

"It's a long story I'll be happy to tell you some other time. I'm going in there to rescue her."

Mery was disturbed. "You are still mad," he whispered. "Sehty himself will be in there, and a full company of guards!"

"What do you suggest I do, leave her? What about you and the Queen? Do you want let her stay in there while Alatar finds out all your plans and schemes? We were planning to escape soon anyway."

"At the new moon," Mery reminded him. "Four days from now."

"We can't wait four days!" said Pippin. "Mery, you've got to get everything ready the way you planned. For Zeah and all."

"Agreed," said Mery. "We will proceed as planned." Now he did look down. "You did not bring your sword today?"

Pippin grimaced. "No. It's too big on me to hide. I've got this," and he produced the new dagger. "That and a few pebbles I can throw. It will have to do. All right? I'm going." And with that he scrambled along the wall in the shadow towards the Temple itself.

Pippin tried hard not to stare at the images of the gods of Nekhet. He was surrounded by new-made images of jackals and ibis and herons and lions and cats and baboons and Elbereth knew what else, all crowned, most with the bodies of men or women, seated on thrones, all carved out of desert stone floated from the northern highlands on mighty barges. They frightened him. He couldn't help but feel there was something ominous about the stone faces, half-animal, colorless and unpainted.

One idol remained defaced, but not so that he couldn't make out what it had been: _Harekht_, Hawk of Heaven, with the Noonstar on its breast.

Pippin made his way from the long hall of the gods into a second chamber surrounded with painted wooden pillars. At the end of the chamber was an altar with a low basin around its base. There sat the statue of Seht. It was twice as tall as the idols in the outer hall, carved of black rock, seated upon a black throne, holding a mace or hammer in one hand and in a lance in the other. The head was of a wild ass, its lips drawn back, its jaws hung wide, its teeth bared, with a mane draped in red fabric, and eyes painted with red stain. A tall figure stood before the altar, offering a water sacrifice, clad in blue. Alatar.

Tall he was, taller than Saruman had been, and he wore a short, thick cape of blue fabric, trimmed with bronze studs along its edge. Sewn upon it was the symbol of the desert storm. His arms were bare from the hem of his short sleeves to the engraved bronze vambraces around his forearms. He was deeply tanned. His head was shaved, and his beard was cropped close to his square jaw, of iron grey. As he turned from the profile he showed a mighty face, lined and weathered, and cold blue eyes. He wore a breastplate of Nekheti make, the disk of the Sun, the crescent of the Moon, and the star in the middle, but instead of the hawk the star was caught in the hands of Seht. A long kilt of blue linen fell to his feet, where he wore sandals lined with gold thread. His staff was a forked spear worked of bronze.

The wizard Alatar turned from the idol of Seht and gazed across the empty chamber. For a moment, his face showed weariness. Then the tiredness passed, and it became grim and commanding once again.

"Captain," summoned the wizard.

Khartamun appeared from a rear passage behind the statue wall. Pippin noted it and made his way there. As he tiptoed through the dimness, he listened to what passed between the wizard and the captain of the Temple Guard.

"What has she said?" Alatar was asking.

"Nothing, yet, eminence," Khartamun replied. "They are a stubborn people. She more than most."

"All men break," said Alatar. "It is only a matter of time. And the minstrel in the marketplace?"

Pippin noticed Khartamun hesitate. So did Alatar.

"Well?" snapped the wizard.

"Nothing yet, eminence."

"Nothing," repeated Alatar with some heat. He strode forth, the blunt end of his staff tapping the sandy floor. "Captain, find him and ensure he is brought to me. He wants the jewel. Find him—alive if you can; but otherwise if necessary."

"Yes, your eminence."

Alatar paused for a moment, holding his staff as if in thought. Khartamun remained, unsure if he was dismissed.

"Go!" commanded the wizard, and Khartamun bowed and left.

Pippin allowed himself to let out a breath, and then made his way towards the doorway Khartamun had used.

He had almost reached it when he froze and then hid again, as Alatar said, "_Osyr_. Come to me."

The Phar! Pippin stopped and peered from behind a pillar, eager to see Yses's husband for the first time. But his excitement speedily turned to horror.

The figure emerged from the shadows. The bones of its back stuck out almost like spines. Its chest was hollow, and it staggered under the weight of the crown on its head. It wore the kilt with a gilded belt and shoulder-armor of fine make, but much of its flesh was wrapped in wound strips of pale fabric. Pippin had no idea how it managed to approach Alatar without falling over. He had no idea how it could still live.

But live it did, and though it had no voice, for its mouth lolled almost uselessly from its skull-like face, it clearly knew Alatar, and attempted to speak. Only air, like the rustling of a dry cavern, came out.

"Patience, my king," said Alatar. "All in good time." He smiled, and placed a large, long-fingered hand upon the Phar's skeletal shoulder. "Soon the Stairway shall be ready, and you, my good friend, shall see the fruit of your hardship.

"The grey rain-curtain of this world will vanish into smoke, and all shall turn to broken glass; and then you will see it: white shores, and beyond, a far green country that has been kept from me for far too long."

Osyr attempted to shake his head, but Alatar seized him.

"It is too late for that, my king. But once the road is opened, I promise you, you shall see the true gods indeed." Alatar raised his staff. "Now, submit." And he thrust the tines of his staff into Osyr's ribs. It began to glow.

Osyr let out a soundless cry. He continued to wither.

Pippin, sickened, fled.

* * *

3.

* * *

He made his way to a dark hall lit by torches. The footprints on the sandy floor told Pippin where to go. Here there were far fewer places to hide, so he moved as swiftly and as silently as he could. A few soldiers passed him by, but none noticed him, and he thanked his stars once more for hobbit stealth.

The hallway diverged into two corridors after some hundred feet. Pippin guessed he was now within a cavern excavated out of the cliff wall. Many footprints led down the right-hand path, and Pippin heard the faint murmur of conversation. Only two pairs of recent footprints went to the left, and there was only silence. Pippin chose left.

He saw a guard standing before a heavy wooden door, barred by a brass-banded beam. Guessing this was where Zeah was being kept, Pippin withdrew two pebbles, each the size of a Man's thumb, from his pocket, stepped around the corner, and threw.

The guard uttered a hoarse grunt as the first pebble struck his throat, and then fell as the second one struck his brow. Pippin took out his knife and ran over to the guard, but the man was already unconscious. He chose not to slay him.

The beam was heavy. He bent by the crack of the doorjamb and called, as loud as he dared, "Zeah?"

He heard a clear reply. "Pippin!"

That settled it. Throwing back his cloak and tossing aside the turban, he grasped the beam and pushed up with all his might. Finally the heavy block of wood budged. Pippin strained and lifted one end up and managed to slide the whole bar to the ground.

He yanked the door open with his weight. Zeah appeared, disheveled.

"Are you all right?"

Zeah nodded. "How did you find me?"

"I'll tell you later." Pippin stepped over the guard. He put a finger to his lips. "He's just asleep."

Zeah knelt over the guard and relieved him of his sword. "Help me," she said, and they took the guard's belt and tied his feet with it. Pippin took his turban, unwound it, and used it to gag the guard as well.

Zeah rearranged her veil. Pippin noticed but decided it wasn't the time to ask.

Armed with sword and dagger they slipped back down the long corridor that led to the temple chamber.

"Alatar's there," Pippin said.

Zeah nodded. "I know."

Her tone alarmed Pippin. "Did he—?"

She shook her head dismissively. "He has not questioned nor harmed me. Perhaps he was waiting for an appropriate time."

"I'll kill anyone who hurts you."

Zeah looked at him in surprise. Then she smiled and took his hand as they ran.

The chamber was darker now than before. The lights were extinguished, and only the flame of the single lamp behind the statue of Seht lit the sanctum. Pippin almost crushed Zeah's hand as they made their way by stealth through the pillars. He guessed Osyr lurked in the darkness, and he was terrified of seeing the apparition again.

Suddenly shouts came from the hallway they had just left. Zeah and Pippin shared a glance and started to hurry. Pippin looked over his shoulder. Their escape had been discovered. The shapes and shadows of armed men were coming from the depths of the temple.

Then Pippin's eyes widened, and his heart skipped a beat. Was it only the light playing tricks on him? Or had the image of Seht … had the idol _moved_? The vicious head, teeth bared, tongue lolling, red eyes gleaming, seemed to have shifted. It was almost as if Seht were looking right at him.

Fear overcame Pippin and he bolted after Zeah, stumbling through the dimness of the temple chambers. He followed her out of the inner sanctuary into the hall of the gods, hearing now the pounding of footsteps behind, and footsteps ahead, with the clatter of weaponry. Zeah waited at the threshold. "Come!" she hurried him, and reached out her hand.

He took it.

But as if they had been caught by hooks they were pulled back from the exit. A skeletal hand clapped over Zeah's mouth, and Pippin was smothered against a bony arm that held them both. Osyr!

Soldiers ran across the doorway of the temple, right where they had been heading. If they had emerged at that moment, they would have been discovered.

"_Careful_." The word was voiceless, like dry leaves, but it came from the withered king.

The hand loosened from Zeah's face. The grip around Pippin weakened. They turned around and beheld what was left of the Phar of the Valley.

Osyr's eyes were sunken in their sockets, but in the dim light Pippin could see they were brown and pained, and yet strong in their pain. He heard the words clearly now, as if in his mind.

_Whatever you will do, do it quickly._

Pippin nodded. Now taking Zeah's hand again, he paused at the threshold, and gazed out. Night had fallen, and a sickly Moon cast little light beneath the stars. The altar round was clear, but soldiers were running to and fro along the columns. They would have to make a run for it.

And then—how? Cross the river, the slave quarter, past the Stairway, and only then into the desert? Or south, down the old city and the marketplace, into the dry riverbed that led also into the sea of sand?

Mery. He would have to trust in Mery. Pippin's mouth was sour at that proposition, but trust it would have to be, even if he refused to ever forgive the man.

He looked up at Zeah. "I told Mery to make ready for our escape," he informed her.

Zeah understood. She took in the barge dock and the distance between. "Then we will have to run."

Pippin nodded. He glanced back at Osyr, but he had vanished back into the darkness.

He felt a squeeze on his hand. He looked up at Zeah. She nodded at him. He nodded back. Hand in hand, sword and dagger drawn, they ran out into the night.

Not since the goblins came after them in the Mines of Moria had Pippin known that kind of flight through danger. The temple guards grew in numbers until spears flew across their path. They wove and dodged the attack. Zeah had to strike one away with the stolen sword. Pippin ducked another one that flew over his head and struck the dirt with a shiver.

He threw stones as they ran, relishing the cries of pain as they found their mark as only a hobbit-thrown pebble could do. They paused for a moment at the high altar, to catch their breath, and then Pippin made to bolt for the barge dock.

Arrows whistled around him and he hit the dirt and scrambled back to Zeah and the cover of the altar stones. "Where is he?" he complained to Zeah, and scrambled through the dirt for more pebbles.

From the temple behind them they saw guards rush out, and then, to their dismay, Alatar himself strode forth. The wizard towered head and shoulders above the Nekheti, and his spear-staff seemed to glow with sulfurous light as he lifted it as a scepter of command.

"Kill them!" shouted the wizard.

Then in the stillness there came a breeze from the south, and in that wind, Pippin heard a horse's silvery neigh.

He looked for its source. Like a shadow dusted in sterling, black coat shimmering with starlight, came the horse Mery had promised, the young filly Zeah had come to Nekhet to retrieve, the horse her uncle had traded for in Umbar.

Pippin's heart swelled with joy. "_Swallow!_"

Swallow it was, and she whinnied and kicked her forelegs, and Pippin watched as she came out of the south from the direction of the Queen's stables, saddled and bridled but riding free on her own. Swallow leapt the wall of the Temple courtyard, broke through the lines of guards, and scattered them with her hooves and the swiftness of her gallop.

Pippin knew what to do. "Come on!" he cried, and took Zeah's hand.

"What are we doing?"

"Climb up!" Pippin said with a glint in his eye, and he scrambled up onto the altar, Zeah close behind.

"My horse!" she cried, elated.

Pippin cocked an eye at her. "_My_ horse," he corrected.

Zeah glared at him. He pulled her down from the path of an arrow.

"Let's fight later," he suggested. He eyed Swallow's approach. "Now!"

Hand-in-hand, they jumped.

Swallow complained as they landed on her back.

"Sorry, girl!" Pippin said, rubbing his hand along her neck. Swallow whinnied in greeting, making Pippin smile. "It's good to see you again, too," he said.

He took the reins. "Zeah," he started to say.

"I have the stirrups," Zeah interrupted, her feet already in the loops.

Pippin grinned. "Right, then," he said. "Let's fly!"

Swallow did not need to be told. She wheeled around the courtyard, daring and daunting every soldier, sword, arrow, and spear. She even wheeled past the temple, kicking up a cloud of dirt in the face of their adversary.

Pippin looked over his shoulder at the wizard. Alatar saw him and glared at him. The hobbit and the wizard stared at each other for a moment's eternity, and then Pippin pulled on Swallow's reins and urged her forward.

By the river, a company of Temple Guard had massed in their path, almost sixty soldiers.

Zeah nudged Pippin. "What?" he asked. He felt her reach around his waist, and he swallowed, growing flustered.

She buckled his swordbelt around him. _Oh, that_, thought Pippin embarrassedly. He switched the reins to his left hand and drew Trollsbane. He heard the gliding of steel behind him, and knew Mery had stowed Zeah's sword as well.

So they hurtled straight into the guards in their path.

The soldiers' ranks broke like leaves piled before the wind. Pippin swung Trollsbane and swatted away every grasp and spear and sword; cries from his left told him Zeah had less compunction with her own weapon. Swallow's hooves cut the dirt in their path as they saw the river and the barge being loosed.

Zeah spotted boats. "Pippin!"

Pippin saw them too. Rowboats would outpace any barge.

He looked ahead. There were several craft in the process of crossing the river; two long ones near both banks, and many boats and barges plying the current. Almost enough to get to the other side …

He dug his heels into Swallow's flanks.

"Let's go!"

"Pippin!" cried Zeah as the pier's edge neared. "What are you doing—!"

Swallow jumped.

They landed on the deck of the barge, but Pippin didn't instruct Swallow to stop. The filly galloped down the length of the barge, causing people to cry out and jump overboard, and then, at its end, they leapt again.

They landed on a ferry going upstream. They crossed the deck and leapt again, onto a raft that nearly sank, and jumped again onto a cargo barge headed downstream, and on and on until they found no other craft available, and behind them a trail of irate boaters and rivermen.

"Pippin …" Zeah warned, growing pale.

"She can swim," Pippin answered.

"But I cannot!"

"Then hold on!"

Zeah wrapped her arms around him and they jumped into the river.

They broke the surface, Zeah clutching Pippin for dear life. Swallow didn't seem to mind, and swam for the far shore, making it after a few moments in which Zeah seemed convinced she was about to go to her fathers. Sopping wet they came upon the far bank by the slave quarters, where the few guards stared at them dumbfounded.

Pippin felt Zeah trembling. He looked up over his shoulder, and kissed on the cheek. "You didn't have to worry," he told her.

Zeah stared at him for a moment, and then smote him on the back of his head.

"Ow!" said Pippin.

They sped through the slave quarter, but their pursuers were far behind. Pippin noted the huts and shacks where Asouk's people, and others, were kept, and he almost made Swallow run by them to strike the locks free with his sword. But Zeah guessed his mind.

"They will only be harmed for helping us," she told him, and Pippin knew she was right.

They reached now the west cliff and galloped up the steep rocky path that led up to the Stairway and the desert. Swallow's hooves found purchase as if she were descended from hill-ponies, and soon they broke out over the lip of the wall of stone and found the Stairway before them.

Pippin stared at the steep-sided structure partially covered in scaffolds. He wondered what secrets lurked inside it. Alatar's words haunted him. A far green country…. But how could he harm the Blessed Realm? What was his plan? How in heaven's name could he be stopped? What could anyone do about it?

Swallow whinnied in fear. Zeah grasped Pippin's shoulder, and Pippin looked back, towards the royal quarter.

From above the Temple of Seht grew a cloud that blotted out the stars. Lightning crossed the space between it and the Temple, lightning going upward, from the ground to the cloud. Lightning, Pippin guessed, from the staff of Alatar. He could hear the wizard's voice in the air.

"Haboob," Zeah said. The cloud grew, and advanced towards them. It marched across the river and up the cliffside, whipping grains of sand even at a distance, stinging them.

Pippin shared a glance with Zeah, and then touched Swallow's mane. She would have to outrun the desert storm.

Before them stretched the Great Desert, silver and white beneath the stars.

Pippin gave a cry, and Zeah kicked the stirrups, and Swallow broke into a gallop faster than any either rider had known from her before. The valley and the Stairway and the light of the Silmaril dwindled at astonishing speed as they fled from the coming storm. For Pippin it seemed his steed was galloping only a shade less fleetly than the memory of Shadowfax.

The storm chased their heels, glowering with lightning, buzzing with the noise of countless grains of sand, caught up in its winds, grinding against each other, a million tiny teeth in the jaws of the wind. They were leaving it behind. They were actually outrunning the wind.

Then a tendril of the collapsing storm reached for them. Just a touch, not its full fury, but it came upon them nonetheless.

"Breathe as deeply as you can!" Zeah cried, and flung Pippin's hood over his face. Pippin looked ahead of them, into the desert, and the image, brief and hanging in the air, of a sheer-faced mountain like a throne, covered in bright cloud. Then Swallow uttered a great neighing call, and sand swept over them.


	11. The Great Desert

_Part XI_

**The Great Desert**

* * *

Pippin spat out sand and looked around. The night was tense and still in the passing of the storm. He was half-buried in a freshly-built dune. Swallow stood by a pit from which she had freed herself. She was panting but otherwise appeared unharmed, grooming her forelegs and flicking sand from her hindquarters with her tail. She saw him and snorted in disapproval.

"Well it seemed like the best available option at the time!" Pippin told her. He looked around for Zeah, and was alarmed to see what looked like her head facedown against the sand.

"Zeah!" he cried, trying to squirm free.

Zeah stirred and lifted her head. Her face veil kept the sand from her mouth and nose. "Pippin," she said, seeing him. "Are you well?"

"Yes," said Pippin, relieved. "Just rather stuck."

"As am I," said Zeah. She struggled and got one arm free. "_Miraz_," she called to Swallow.

Swallow neighed and came to her. Zeah reached for one of the stirrups and clicked her tongue. Swallow pulled her free.

Pippin watched this with a frown. "She's _my_ horse," he told Zeah.

"Then why was she in a market in Umbar?" Zeah asked, coming to free him.

"We were raided by pirates—oh, nevermind." With Zeah's help Pippin pulled himself from the sand. "Ugh." He took off his cloak and shook it out. The elven-cloak was whole; Zeah's veils and headscarf were slightly torn but still serviceable. Pippin's tunic fared worse. "I just got this," he complained, slipping it over his head and beating the sand and dust off as best he could.

Zeah chuckled, checking and fixing Swallow's saddle and saddlebags. "Mery left us traveling food, and some skins of water; and fodder for Miraz. The food should last long enough if we're sparing."

"That never does sound encouraging," sighed Pippin. "How long till we get to your tribe?"

"We will be meeting them at Gar bet-Eria, the Mountain of Er. If we ride at some speed, using the wadi valleys, stopping as little as possible, we will arrive at the oasis of Zet Pallan beneath the Mountain in time for the Feast of Purification." She winked at him. "Does that sound good to you, Pippin?"

"A feast _always_ sounds good to me."

After a brief rest and a sip of water Zeah took Swallow's reins and, with Pippin at her back, took them all into the deep desert. The fearless slave girl Pippin had come to know revealed a truer side of herself in the wilderness: a tracker and rider of great skill. She found ways through the pathless sand to the dry valleys where the rare and violent rains carved out rocky beds through arid hills. She knew the signs of water under the soil there, and how to get nourishment for Swallow from the oldest and driest-looking of thorn shrubs, which, along with the occasional date palm, were almost the only growing things they came across.

There was plenty of animals, however, to his surprise. In the dry valleys Pippin saw large antelope with long, slanting swirl horns that Zeah called addax. She made sure to follow them as often as she could, for they could sense edible vegetation as if by magic, keeping Swallow fed. Among the rocks Pippin also found small leaping mice with long hind legs like springs, and amused Zeah by trying in vain to catch one, ending up covered in dust and feeling like a tweenage fool. But he saw how Zeah laughed, and he liked to make girls laugh.

There were birds as well, including bustards with striking black-and-white wings in flight, that on the ground one could have tripped over as a rock. Pippin occasionally saw eagles, and the sight of them warmed his heart, as they glided majestically upon the winds, coming down on a small animal they had spied with their gifted sight. Once, Pippin saw something smaller, and more pointed, high against the sun: a falcon.

Nights were surprisingly cold, and Pippin was glad for the blankets Mery had provided for them. Zeah built small fires when they camped, usually among rocks if they could help it, in the lee of a dune if they were out among the ergs. The absence of cloud made for starry skies Pippin had not known in such thickness except on the clearest days at sea on the _Sword_. He found that he could see the Sickle of the Valar to the north and, at the same time, the diamond-shaped constellation he had first seen with Asouk in the south. He asked Zeah if her people had a name for it.

"That is the Vow of Er," she said, and reverenced it, bowing her head and covering her brow with both palms. Pippin, uncomfortable, didn't pursue it, but at night, gazing at the four stars amidst all the countless others, he wondered about everything he still didn't know.

Eagle owls hunted at night, and once, among seared hillscapes, Zeah had espied a thin, lynx-like cat drowsing on a rock. "Stay close to me," she said. "That cat is big enough to take a child."

"I'm forty-one," Pippin told her.

Startled, she stared at him. "I did not know that."

"I'm almost twice your age," Pippin said, feeling strange and wondering if she felt the same.

One night Pippin woke to hear a wondrous shimmering sound. They were camped on the edge of an erg by a flat gravel plain. Pippin was cold and woke to pull his cloak tighter around himself and inch closer to the fire, when he heard the sound like music. He looked around, but saw nothing but the distant dunes, shifting in the breeze.

He asked Zeah about the sound the next morning.

"Singing sand," she answered. "Some dunes are made of sand that makes music when they move. It is considered lucky in many circumstances."

"What circumstances?"

"Ours, for one."

"Well that's good news."

The journey from the Valley into the desert was one of a hundred leagues and more, but Swallow was swift and almost tireless when she ran, and the miles passed swiftly. Pippin found it unlike any other of his wanderings to date. He was heading for a friendly place, or so he trusted, as Zeah was the daughter of the chief of these people, this prophet; he was on Swallow, a horse of Rohan, to whom distance was a challenge and not a hindrance; and he was with Zeah.

The latter did have one drawback, however. At night, Pippin was sometimes stricken by a restlessness, knowing she was sleeping nearby. Sometimes when it was particularly cold she huddled with him, doubling their blankets and holding him against her body. Pippin was at a loss at how not to embarrass himself at those times, which made him glad for the cold and gladder that his tunic was long and his breeches loose. Still, how could she not know, he thought; but Zeah said nothing, and only laughed when he made her smile.

It was their twelfth night out in the desert when Pippin saw the unicorns.

He woke from a dream of Faramir and Denethor, which he disliked whenever it came. They were camped in a small oasis, where by the tracks it was clear travelers had just passed. Zeah had been excited, as if she guessed who these people had been. She had washed and changed her clothes into black and indigo garb, the colors of her people's clothing, and encouraged Pippin to do the same. Pippin had faith in his cloak, but changed his tunic anyway. All of a sudden, he wasn't quite so happy to be nearing friendly faces; that meant the day he would part from Zeah was hastening near.

Now he sat up and looked up at the stars and counted those that fell while he gazed. One. Two. Three. Five. Five it was. He looked west, but Eärendil was absent. The Moon had set early, young and thin, and only the stars were out. Zeah was sound asleep. So was Swallow, who had the uncanny talent to fall utterly asleep on her belly with no trouble whenever she felt like it. Pippin remembered when he used to be like that.

A shimmer of light, a dance of movement on the edge of his vision, caught his attention, and he crouched, ready for anything.

There were living creatures frolicking in the starlight upon the cold dunes. Pippin squinted, trying to make them out, but it was they who galloped down the slope of the dune to the oasis pool to drink.

It was a pair of unicorns, a doe and a buck. Both were smaller than horses, like ponies, and graceful as gazelles, and their fetlocks were fringed with curling hair like hobbit-feet. Their slender, brush-tipped tails swirled like ribbons as they drank from the clear welling pool where the starlight was brightest on the water. Their horns seemed made of that starlight.

Pippin didn't move, didn't blink, didn't breathe, watching the unicorns quench their thirst in the starlight. But for some reason the unicorns looked up, and looked at him, and Pippin knew they were judging him by the glitter in their pale, pale eyes. Then, with grace and satisfaction, the doe dipped her muzzle back into the pool, and her mate followed suit. And Pippin let out a breath he hadn't know he had been holding.

Before another day passed, they came to a camp of travelers, dressed as Zeah was dressed, in black head-coverings and veils and indigo robes. Zeah was welcomed as a kinswoman, and Pippin as an honored guest as was their custom; and traveling together with the small caravan, they came to the massif in the midst of the desert.

"Gar bet-Eria," Zeah said in joy and reverence. "Look, Pippin. There is the Mountain of Er."

* * *

2.

* * *

Gar bet-Eria was a monolith, where in some long-gone past a hill of ancient stone some thousand feet tall had partially collapsed, leaving a sheer cliff-face above a glissade of rocks and gravel now tamped down by the ages into something of a floor. The road to the campsite wound through a dry valley leading up to the ancient rockslide, where bitter springs created an oasis of palms and shrubs and even grass.

The canyon floor, a mile wide at the widest, was half-filled with tents that seemed to blend into the rock and soil. Horses, thin-limbed and wide-hooved, roamed in a fenced enclosure by the oasis. The murmur of children reached Pippin's ears, as did the barking of pointed black-and-grey dogs, and the tell-tale din of a few hundred people. Women, long veils trailing in the dust, were carrying bundles of wood and kindling toward the Mountain. Pippin passed them, seated behind Zeah, seeing himself in the women's dark eyes.

They neared a tent as large as any hall Pippin had seen. There he had his first glimpse of the warriors of the Erites: tall, fierce-eyed men, with black turbans and indigo robes, wielding cruel spears like halberds and with curved swords at their side. They resembled the Haradrim of his memory, except for their colors—indigo, not scarlet—and that their swords were not scimitars but more like Elven blades. More than twenty of these stood outside the great pavilion, and their eyes noted the new arrivals with impassivity. Many had, on their shoulders or on thick leather vambraces, tamed hunting falcons.

"_Medzhai_," Zeah told Pippin.

From the tent emerged a man dressed as a Medzha, with eyes like Zeah's, amber and warm. He paused at the threshold, beholding the travelers, and then pulled down his face covering, revealing a young face with a small, light beard and three small triangles tattooed in an arc on his left cheek. Visibly overjoyed, he shouted, "Zeah!" and hurried to her.

Zeah dismounted and ran into the young man's arms. She parted her face veil momentarily to kiss him on both cheeks. He did the same. "I have missed you," she said in Westron.

The young man frowned, saw Pippin, a diminutive grey shape all alone on the great black filly, and understood.

"You're late," he replied in the language of the West.

"I was delayed," said Zeah, leading the handsome young man hand-in-hand to Pippin and Swallow. Pippin's stomach was churning.

"Pippin," said Zeah, "this is Hoz ben Zedek of the Erayyim bet-Eria, acolyte of the prophet and the youngest captain of the Medzhai in living memory. Hoz, this is Peregrin Took, wanderer of the far north, heir of _Sûzat_ and knight of Gondor."

"At your service," Pippin muttered.

"May Er smile upon the hour of our meeting," replied Hoz. "How come you to my sister's company?"

Pippin blinked. "S-sister?" he repeated unthinkingly.

Zeah's eyes twinkled with mischief. "Hoz is my little brother," she said. "Did you not know?"

Hoz looked from his sister's face to the that of the halfling. "I look forward to hearing your tale," he said knowingly. "Come. Father is here and will be pleased to see you."

Pippin expected to be taken directly before Zeah and Hoz's father, but instead he was led to an antechamber in the pavilion where he could cleanse himself and even bathe his face and hands. "Don't wash your feet," Zeah warned him.

That seemed strange, but Pippin, accustomed to washing his feet only before getting into nice clean bedclothes (and sometimes not even then, leading a scolding from his nurse and Paladin), didn't argue.

He was naked when Zeah reappeared. "Give me your breeches," she said.

"You should knock!" Pippin exclaimed.

"I have seen everything you have to show," Zeah rejoined merrily. "And how should I knock in a tent?"

"I'm sure you have some quaint and exotic custom to the same effect."

Zeah smirked. "I brought you this," she said, and tossed him a bundle. Pippin replied with his balled-up breeches. Zeah shook them out and wrinkled her nose exaggeratedly. "You will find another pair in that bundle."

"You sound like my sister."

"Which one?"

"All of them."

Zeah chuckled. She watched Pippin unfurl the clothes and examine them until he felt her gaze. He looked up at her, conscious again of his state of undress, a flush spreading beneath his sunbrowned cheeks.

"I am not your sister," she reminded him, before leaving Pippin to his own devices.

* * *

Dressed and clean, he presented himself before Zeah and Hoz. "How do I look?"

He had on the new pair of breeches of creamy Nekheti linen, made by Yses hobbit-style, and the embroidered black Medzhain _camiah_ Zeah had given him, and the leather vest from Yses, and his elven-cloak. Around his waist was the black and silver belt of Gondor, and around his neck the lion's tooth pendant of the Plains, beneath the clasp of the green, gleaming mallorn. He had combed his curls as best he could, gold where the sun had touched them, chestnut near the roots, and run his fingers through the curls on his feet. The bronze Nekheti dagger was strapped at his waist, worn pirate-fashion. Trollsbane, bright with use, was sheathed beneath his left.

Hoz glanced at his sister. Zeah was quite silent. "You embody your name, wanderer," he said with a bow.

Pippin looked down at himself. "I do?"

"Sister?"

Zeah evaluated him. "You look very handsome, Pippin."

A smile spread across Pippin's face. "I'm glad you like it," he told her.

They went from the small antechamber to the center of the pavilion. It was a wide space large enough for forty people to stand or sit comfortably, and almost that many were there with room to spare. The floor was covered with carpets. Men in black and indigo sat and reclined on cushions encircling a clear space before a low chair; women sat in a semicircle behind it. Sitting in that chair was a man of many years who rose as Hoz, Zeah, and Pippin emerged into the enclosure.

In after years Pippin never forgot his first meeting with Zedek, the prophet of Er. He was not a particularly tall man; he was barely taller than his daughter, and much shorter than his son. He did not have the air of authority of Denethor, and at first glance was as unlike unto Aragorn as a laborer's cup was to a silver grail. His clothes were less rich than those of the Erite chiefs gathered around him. But as Pippin approached he saw something in Zedek's eyes he had seen before only in Gandalf: a hidden power, a majesty veiled, and wisdom that as he came closer Pippin thought lit the man from within, like a living flame. And if Gandalf's power was of an immortal sort, Zedek's was that of a merely mortal man who had dealings not merely with immortality, but eternity.

Zedek spoke warmly in their tongue, and Zeah and Hoz knelt and bowed long and low, until Zedek spoke again. Then they rose, and stepped aside, and Pippin took a short breath and stepped forth. Zeah spoke, and he heard his name—_Razanur Tûk_—and he bowed, not as they had, but the best and most formal he knew how, the way he would bow to Strider if Strider were the sort to let him.

"Peregrin Took, son of Paladin Thain of the Shire, Knight of Gondor and Guard of the Citadel," he introduced himself formally. He straightened and finished, "Companion of the Fellowship of the Ring." And though he spoke in Westron, it seemed clear from their faces that they understood him, and knew something of the War of the Ring. "At your service and your family's."

Zedek addressed him.

"The peace and blessings of the Most High be upon thee and thy family, Peregrin son of Paladin, traveler from the north," said the prophet. His Westron was both simple and antique. "Er most merciful has led thee to this place, at this hour." He gestured. "In his name, and in gratitude for thy aid to my eldest child, I welcome thee to my tent." He indicated the place at his right hand as everyone else rose and shifted.

Pippin looked uncertainly at Zeah, who nodded. Feeling quite conspicuous, he went to the place prepared for him. Hoz joined him. Zeah sat behind the men, but close to her father.

Zedek nodded solemnly. The chiefs and elders sat, as well as Zeah and Hoz. But Zedek had not. Confused, Pippin didn't know what to do.

"Please, sit," said Zedek.

Pippin obeyed.

A woman came bearing a laver of clear water. She laid it before Pippin and rose. Then, to Pippin's shock, Zedek left his seat and coming before him knelt, unwound a cloth from his robes, dipped it into the water, and began to clean Pippin's right foot.

Hoz touched Pippin's arm as Pippin started to protest, dismayed and awestruck. Pippin saw Zeah also still him with a glance.

He swallowed again, and sat humbled and awed, as the prophet washed the residue of wandering from Pippin's big, weary feet.

* * *

3.

* * *

It had been some time since Pippin had been able to eat so much. The Erites, at least on their feast days, were not pecuniary at their table. Pippin had his fill of spiced millet and savory lentils and onions with wild rice, stuffed quail, roast leg of lamb, and more. There were desserts of candied lemons, goat-milk custard flavored with wild honey and cardamom, even a rich porridge of rice mixed with young cheese, cinnamon, and sugar. The dates were glorious. He had second helpings of everything and third helpings of each dessert.

There was sweet, strong wine, and barley beer, and coffee, which reminded Pippin of Bag End (it was such a Baggins drink, coffee). There was also water from the springs, but a little honey and wine vinegar made it go down smoothly. When the men began to produce pipes, Pippin's eyes grew huge, and he all but ransacked Hoz's jacket for what the man said was an extra one, much to Zeah's mirth. "What are we smoking? What are we smoking?" Pippin kept asking, all manners forgotten, hoping against hope it wasn't anything poppy-related.

The men laughed as servants appeared carrying small jars. Pippin, at Hoz's nod, opened one, and sniffed.

_Pipeweed_.

"We discovered the plant many generations ago in the lee of the mountains by the ocean," Hoz explained. "It may have been brought by the tall men of the ships in the days of old."

Pippin nodded. He didn't quite care. He had not smoked a thing since that vile poppycake with Bangshar the Easterling back on the _Sword_, months and months ago. At his first puff, he thought all his suffering and hardship to this point was indeed forgiven.

When the music began, Pippin had a full belly, a tankard of beer, and a full pipe. He bobbed his head in time to the music, puffing, sipping beer, burping once and not being shushed. He looked over to the women, and Zeah was watching him, her smile apparent through her sheer veil.

He smiled back.

Pippin, feeling ill, asked his leave from Zedek, a bit unsteadily, and went for a walk in the cool of the evening. In every tent it seemed some feast was underway. Music, singing, laughter of many voices, the squeals of children—all of it came to his ears and sank into his heart, and for a moment if he closed his eyes he imagined he was in the Shire, and that it was cool grass instead of cool sand between his toes.

_Home …_

He found his tent, pitched for him that evening, set aside by itself in the lee of a rock that would shade it even in sunlight. It was not a big tent for a man, but to Pippin, used to sleeping on a bedroll beneath the stars in days fair or foul, it was a great luxury. He nodded at Swallow, tethered nearby, and went inside, investigating the lamp and the bedding and the carpets and everything else. He sighed, and then yawned.

"Oh, dear," he said, and started to undress. He remembered he'd pocketed some dates for Swallow, and he went back out to feed her some.

Swallow was curried and watered and fed. She seemed content.

"Almost reminds you of home, doesn't it, girl?" Pippin asked. "Yes, you must have had a wonderful time growing up in Merry's stables. That's one mad hobbit, that one, and we're both the better for it." He looked up at the sky, and turned north, to the Sickle. "I wonder what he's doing right now."

He wished he could use his "sight" to check on his cousin … but he didn't know how.

He looked around the encampment again. It seemed so peaceful, and, for all its foreign, desert beauty, almost like home.

"Home," he said aloud, trying out the taste of it. It didn't taste the same. It hadn't for some time; and what he went through on the river to Nekhet had only made it worse. It seemed to him that he was a hobbit in nothing but footfur anymore.

Suddenly despondent, he went into his tent and crawled into the bedding.

He was almost asleep when he felt someone enter his tent.

Trollsbane rose from the bedside and swept through the air. Its edge struck the flat of a knife. In the dimness Pippin saw a veiled face. Zeah.

Pippin blinked. "What's happened? What's going on?"

But Zeah didn't answer. She lowered her knife, and Trollsbane followed. She gazed at him, and then tucked her knife against her dress and reaching up began to undo her veil. She loosened it from behind her head and unwound it in swift, graceful movements, before letting the fabric fall.

Her hair, curls of vine-ripe black, loosed itself down her back and around her face. Pippin had never seen her hair and face both uncovered. She sat for a moment, letting him look into her. Then he rose and took her face into his hands and kissed her.

* * *

4.

* * *

The Erites, or Erayyim as they called themselves, traced their history back to the tribes of the Grey Mountains of the South, who long ago sheltered "men from the sea" fleeing the first changes to come over their island kingdom. When in turn the Mountains became havens for Black Númenóreans and pirates, the Erites turned to the desert, taking with them their horses and their falcons and the faith of the men from the sea, the worship of the One they called Er.

It was said that a falcon and a horse led them to the mountain they now called Gar bet-Eria, the Mountain of Er. There they found an old man with long white hair, in robes the indigo of the distant ocean, holding a staff of copper. The old man had welcomed them and said, "Blessings of the One be upon you! You have the Fire. Now have water!" and he smote the ground with his staff, and the springs welled up. The travelers had been frightened, but the stranger had disappeared. Some say he went walking East. The springs were named Zet Pallan in his honor.

Since then, with the coming of the tenth new moon of each year for more than two thousand years as many tribes as could made the pilgrimage to the Mountain for their holy day, the Feast of Purification, where the prophet would make sacrifice to the Fire of Er for the expiation of the sins of the people.

Pippin watched from a short distance as Zedek approached the great pile of wood and kindling that had been built in the hallow at the base of the sheer face of the Mountain. The prophet wore a tablet upon his breast inscribed with writing. He wore a white mantle over his indigo robes. Hoz, as acolyte, walked with him, carrying a lit torch. Zedek lifted his hands to the Mountain and the pyre, and with eyes closed spoke an invocation that to Pippin sounded both terrible and beautiful.

A bullock chosen for the occasion, with a hide as close to white as possible, was led forth to Zedek. Zedek took his sword from his side and with a clean stroke hewed the head off the animal, and then divided it into two. He spoke words of prayer as the blood seeped into the ground. Then the pieces of the animal were placed upon the pyre. Hoz knelt, offering the brand. Zedek took it and touched it to the wood. Drenched in pitch and oil, the wood caught immediately, and blazing consumed the sacrifice. It would be kept burning for six days and six nights as pilgrims came individually or as groups to the Mountain to pray to Er, as was the duty of all at least once in their life.

Pippin kept his distance, not being one of these people nor sharing their worship, and also because the sight of the pyre reminded him of Denethor. But the faces of the supplicants held no terror, only such things as sorrow, grief, anger, happiness, and most of all hope. Everyone, man and woman, girl and boy, uncovered their faces at that time, the only time in public in they uncovered both at once, as a sign of respect.

"Do you have nothing to confess?"

Pippin smiled and turned to speak to Zeah face-to-face. "Nothing, and a multitude of things," he replied. "But I'm an … _infidel_, is that the word?"

"That is the word," Zeah assented. "Does it mean you? I do not think so. But it is your choice. If you feel you should not confess what you did last night …"

Pippin cooled. "What?"

"You nearly cut my head off."

"Oh!" Pippin realized. "Well, I'm sorry about that. Habit, you know. Anyway, you defended yourself. Besides," and he blinked innocently, "did I not make it up to you?"

Smiling through her veil, she proceeded past him to join the lines coming to the Mountain.

"Zeah," Pippin called, making her turn back. "What do _you_ have to confess?"

Zeah shook her head, but it seemed she smiled.

Pippin saw Hoz, duties done, pass his sister by with a nod and then join him at his vantage point.

"My sister tells me you are a great warrior, worthy of a man twice your size," Hoz said directly.

"I won't call your sister a liar," Pippin rejoined, "but I'm no more than adequate."

"That is certainly not what she told me, and if you say my sister is a liar I fear I shall have to cut out your tongue."

"You're welcome to try."

Hoz laughed. "My sister, though a woman, is a skilled fighter. She thinks you are her equal."

Pippin made a show of shrugging. "Well," he scoffed, kicking at the sand, "if Zeah says so …"

"Good," said Hoz. "I am also a good fighter. Perhaps we can fight and you can teach me the style of the north."

"I'll be happy to," replied Pippin. Then he had a thought. "Um, Hoz? How good are you?"

"I taught my sister."

"Oh."

* * *

Zeah came to Pippin's tent again that evening. Pippin grinned from ear to ear as she appeared. They kissed passionately and went from there.

"You aren't going to get into trouble for this, are you?" he asked afterward.

"I cannot 'get into trouble' for this," she replied.

"Truly?"

She searched his face, and then answered, "Pippin, you have been with many women, yes?"

Pippin blushed. "Well …"

"So you must have noticed that I was no maiden when I lay with you last night."

Pippin had noticed. "Among my people, that isn't all that rare," he said. Then he nodded. "Oh. It is rare with yours."

"I was wed to a Medzha captain when I became of age eight years ago, at thirteen," she explained. "He divorced me when he discovered, after much effort, that I am barren. I cannot have children, Pippin."

Pippin traced her cheek with his fingertip. "I'm sorry," he breathed, thinking of Merry and Estella.

"A woman's worth lies primarily in the number of children she can bear," she went on. "I am fortunate to have status through my father. I can devote myself to the arts of war and the ways of the desert." She chuckled. "I think the men respect me more now than if I were a noble wife and mother!" She shifted to Pippin and huddled against him, closing her eyes. "You are so warm," she said.

"I'm smaller than you. My blood runs hotter."

Zeah laughed silently. Then she was silent for a long time. Pippin thought she had gone to sleep, and he started to drowse as well.

"I do not regret much."

Pippin's eyes fluttered open. "What?"

"Being who I am," Zeah explained. "I do not regret it. I have made myself useful as a tracker and a warrior. I have my father's love and my brother's esteem. I have seen many things no woman would ever see. Er has been merciful." She sighed. "But I do wish I had found a good, faithful husband, and had a child he would love. I see him dangling our son on his knee, and I find myself wishing … Oh, fear not!" she told him. "I am not plighting troth to you! I know you plan to leave for Umbar, and return to your home. And I and my people shall go to war against Sehty. Such are the paths we have found." She embraced him. "I have learned to treasure what I have, for whatever time I have them. For now, we have this, and now is as long a time as it needs to be."

But as Zeah slept, Pippin didn't.

* * *

5.

* * *

Pippin stole away from his tent, flinging his cloak upon his shoulders, walked through the encampment towards the light of the sacred fire. The line of pilgrims had dwindled to a trickle at the late hour, but it still continued, and would continue until all who had come to Zet Pallan and Gar bet-Eria had had the chance to purify themselves.

As he had done earlier in the day, Pippin climbed up a small rise where he could see the fire without violating the hallowed ground reserved for the Erites. From his perch he watched the penitents make their way up the defile to the hallow. One old woman dropped to her knees and went on that way towards the fire, weeping with an otherwise impassive face. Pippin felt small, smaller than even a hobbit should feel, before such piety.

He heard someone approach, and looked over his shoulder. It was Zedek.

"What troubles thee, my friend?" the prophet asked him.

"Nothing," Pippin blurted. Then he gave up. "Many things. I don't know if I should tell you."

Zedek went to him and stood with him. They gazed together upon the hallow of Er and the bright, breathtaking fire.

"So thou findest thyself here, before Er," Zedek said after a while. "Hast thou come to seek purification?"

"Can I?" asked Pippin with a disbelieving laugh.

"Dost thou seek it?"

He felt the prophet's eyes upon him. He looked up, a bit defiant, a bit desperate. "I do not know what I seek."

"Er knows all thy thoughts and cares," Zedek said.

That made Pippin laugh nervously. "So what's all this for?" he asked, nodding at the pilgrims, the fire, the place where the bullock had been slain.

Zedek's answer was plain. "It is for us," he said, with a small smile and a piercing look. "A man findeth truth in the sands, for here the dark fire of the enemy is strongest, and so against that darkness shines the secret fire brightest. The sands can bear what the river cannot."

Pippin stared at him, startled. He had been told that before. He remembered standing upon the embrasure of Minas Tirith, on a bright spring day, clad as a knight of Gondor, beholding his reforged sword, hearing those words and seeing Faramir assenting to them.

He closed his eyes, and remembered: _You are a knight of the Citadel. Wherever you may wander, the White City shall know you, and welcome you home._

_Home_….

"I don't know where to start," he confessed.

"Any start will do."

Pippin should have known that. "Right," he said. "Well … I'm here, when I should be home."

"Why did you leave?"

"I … I was afraid."

_Of what?_

Pippin wasn't sure who asked, but someone did. So he answered.

"I was afraid … of failing."

_Who?_

"Everyone."

_Who is everyone?_

_Papa. Mum. The family. The town. The Shire._

_Merry and Sam._

_Strider and Faramir._

_Diamond. No—I already failed her before I started._

_My son._

_Who else?_

"No one," whispered Pippin, feeling naked in the light, with nothing between his heart and the secret fire. "I don't want to say."

_Admit it._

_No._

_Admit it._

" … no … it doesn't matter anymore …"

_Whom have you failed?_

"Gandalf!" Pippin exclaimed. "I've failed Gandalf!" Then it all came gushing out. "He saw some good in me but I've let it go. He thought he could make something of me, but he was wrong. He was wrong." The tears began, but he paid them no heed. "Maybe if he'd stuck around it would have been different," he accused. "If he'd stayed awhile to see if the little fool of a Took would grow into his place in the world. Sure, drop him into the river and see if he'll swim! Send the lad to war and watch what happens! He's strong, he's smart, he'll find his way, hobbits are hard to kill. Besides, who can gainsay such spirit? Let him go, Elrond, let him go, and pit and wood and war and pyre and the gates of hell he'll see, and he'll be a better Thain for it when he grows up.

"I wasn't _ready_ to grow up. I wasn't ready. I wasn't ready for anything."

He sank to the ground and dragged the edge of his hand across his lips. "I saw … things, I did … things …" he murmured, his face to the ground, half-hidden by his hand. "I tried. I tried to go back. But Frodo was right, you see? You can't come back from that. At least he got to leave. And Gandalf left too. They both left … Left us ordinary fellows to pick up the pieces as best we could!

"Oh, yes, that was nice! And why not? Frodo deserved it. He deserved it if anyone did. He suffered the most and he couldn't go home. I wish I were like him. But I'm not, am I? I'm Pip. Silly little Pip. The fool of a Took. Don't worry about Pip, he's young, he's brave, he'll fit right back in."

He sank so low it was as if he were trying to dig himself a hole to live in, there in the desert rock. "I loved them, you know," he confessed finally. "I would die for them twice over if they needed me to. But I also hate them a bit. For having found a home after everything was done, whether it be the Shire or a place across the Sea. I haven't. Home, was not _home_, anymore, and I … I think, that _no_ place, _ever_, will be."

Then the halfling upon the ground wept as halflings do not weep, low before the flame imperishable. When he felt an old hand and a soft robe brush his face, he grasped it and clung to it, pretending he was a lad of twenty-eight again, and Gandalf was with him still.


	12. The Singer

_Part XII_

**The Singer**

* * *

Pass, pass, parry, lunge. Cut, pass, lunge, parry. Parry, parry—

Pippin grunted as he tripped and fell. "Shit!"

"What a foul language," Hoz said, helping him up.

"Orcs are foul," Pippin replied. "What am I doing wrong?" he asked.

It was nine days since his arrival among the Erites, and he had taken up Hoz's offer to spar with him and teach each other their styles of swordfighting. Hoz was truly skilled, a prodigy, in fact, or so it seemed to Pippin. He was at least as skilled as Faramir, at the age of twenty.

They were sparring in a clearing used by the Medzhai, Zeah with them. Despite his lingering despondency, Pippin's natural curiosity, and hobbitry, did not permit him to mope for long. He wanted to learn about the desert, the Medzha fighting skills, about the tamed falcons the warriors used for communicating over the ergs.

Now the cry of Hoz's falcon got their attention, and Hoz lifted up his hand to the small speck in the sky that came spiraling down. "_Serak_," Hoz greeted the bird, which called in reply. "What have you found?"

The falcon released a scrap of cloth from its talons, bearing marks that looked like writing. Hoz peered at it for a moment, and then gave it to Pippin. "It is in the Westron runes," he said.

Pippin took it. On it was one word, in Cirth.

"'Help'," he said. He peered closer at the writing, then gave it to Zeah. "Is this what I think it is?"

Zeah examined and then tasted it.

"Blood," she said.

* * *

They went together, Hoz on his horse, Pippin and Zeah on Swallow, Serak the falcon flying ahead, leading them north into the desert. The hills of the massif turned into the graved valleys and then into gravel flats and finally into the sea of sand. The horses ran as fast as was safe; Swallow outstripped her counterpart, and soon Pippin and Zeah were far in the lead, almost equaling the falcon. Heat and light rained down on them from the sky, and castles of mirages ascended and descended on the horizon.

They saw the horses first, in the lee of a dune scalloped by the wind. Two figures were next to them, one lying on the ground, the other seeming to tend to him. This one looked up as they arrived, heralded by the falcon's cry.

It was the singer from the market. He rose, and gestured to the man on the ground. "He is sunstruck."

Zeah leapt off Swallow with the waterskin. "Pippin, watch him," she said, motioning to the singer.

But Pippin was staring at the prone man, blistered by heat, but not unrecognizable.

"Bangshar?" he whispered.

He skidded down the dune disregarding the heat of the sand, which even he could feel through the soles of his feet.

_"Bangshar!"_

He bent down close and held up his old shipmate's head and taking the waterskin from Zeah pressed its mouth to Bangshar's. "Drink up, mate," he said.

He looked up at the singer. "What is he doing here?"

"I know not," was the reply. "I came upon him already ill as I was leaving the Nekheti realm."

"And you are not ill?" Zeah asked.

Pippin wondered why she was being so suspicious. Erites were hospitable to all travelers, until those travelers proved other than trustworthy.

Hoz arrived and surmised the situation. "Come," he said. "Lay him on my horse. We will take you to our encampment. Both of you."

The singer bowed. "My thanks."

On the ride back, Pippin asked Zeah, "That bard."

"I do not trust him."

"I can see that." Pippin hesitated. "Some people can hear thoughts," he began. "I think he's one of them."

"There is no such thing."

"Zeah—"

"Hush, Pip."

He was just about to advise the same thing. He had the feeling the singer, riding before them, was listening.

Bangshar was taken to a healer's tent where Pippin joined him. He was delirious, but would survive.

"Seek me when he wakes," Pippin told the physician, and then hastened to the prophet's tent.

The elders and chiefs were assembled. Zedek sat upon his chair. The singer, garbed in his black cloak and hood, stood in the center. Hoz had just finished introducing him, and now stepped aside.

"Welcome to the springs of Zet Pallan," said Zedek, politely but without warmth.

The stranger bowed. "I thank you."

Zeah, seated behind her father with the women, murmured something. Zedek hushed her, but then said, "Forgive us, but it is our custom to seek the name of our guests, of the travelers through this desert land. Please, tell us of thyself."

For a moment the stranger did nothing. Then he reached up and pulled back his hood.

"_Dejin_," Hoz said in wonder and fear.

"I am Maglor, son of Fëanor," said the Elf, and as his heart leapt Pippin couldn't tell whether it was wonder that he felt, or terror.

* * *

2.

* * *

The discussion was still ongoing near midnight. The chiefs and elders of the Erites were discussing the matter of Nekhet, contemplating war. Many were inhospitable to the idea of interfering in the matters of the Valley and its people. Some were afraid that too much contact with the "idolaters" would taint the purity of the people of Er. Others were more afraid of war. Hoz and the Medzhai were eager for battle. Zeah spoke, addressing the men thus:

"The evil of Sehty spreads across the desert and into the plains of the south. Have we resisted the lure of the Lord of Mordor, that long claimed our cousins to the north, only to hide our eyes from the Man of Seht?"

The Elf remained in the tent, no longer speaking, only listening, and not just with his ears. Pippin knew this and finally slipped out of the tent into the night outside.

The air had a chill. Pippin drew his cloak about him. He saw a fire where Medzhai were sitting sipping coffee and munching bread. Pippin went to join them, coming silently into their circle. The men looked at him but remained silent. After a while Pippin rose, taking his cup of coffee and bread, and with a nod, left them.

He was sitting by himself upon a rock in the dirt when Zeah emerged from the pavilion. Her face was clouded.

"Didn't go well?" he asked.

She said nothing, but came to sit next to him, her eyes fixed on the clear dark sky.

"Tell me of this _dejin_," she said. "What do you know of him?"

Pippin thought back to the story of the Silmarils. "Well, it is said …" And he told her briefly of the tale.

Zeah listened darkly. "You have had dealings with _dejin_. Is he who he says he is?"

Pippin considered the sight of Maglor's eyes, comparing them to Galadriel's, and then nodded. "I think so," he said. "He's old enough, at least. There are ages in his eyes if you look at them."

"I will not," said Zeah. "The _dejin_ are not to be trusted."

"How do you know?" Pippin asked her. "Have you ever met one before in your life?"

"I do not need to."

"Well I have. I have had 'dealings' indeed. This cloak was woven by Galadriel, the greatest lady yet to walk the face of the world. Legolas of Mirkwood is my friend and comrade, and Companion of the Ring same as I. The Evening Star is a half-Elf, and I've met his son, greatest of loremasters on this earth—a person _this_ very Elf cared for, long ago. Elves are beautiful, and lofty, and wherever they dwell is blessed!"

"Yet in the tale you have just told me, they have done great harm and ruinous deeds. Especially these sons of the maker of the Noonstar," Zeah pointed out coolly.

Pippin was forced to admit that she was right. Perhaps in this place and in other places of the world, Elves were dark and untrustworthy. He didn't know.

They sat in silence for a long while.

Brilliant and smoky, a star fell, with a soft exclamation from Pippin.

"What do you see when you see a falling star?" he asked the woman at his side.

"War in heaven," was her answer. "What do you see, Pippin?"

"A chance to make a wish," he replied with a smile.

"And what did you wish for, just now?"

Pippin hesitated. "Well, I suppose there's no harm in telling you, since it's not going to come true anyway. I wished that I returned to the Shire and found Diamond in love with me."

There it was. The first time he had mentioned his wife's name since he had told her he was married. At first she had not understood his concern; Erite men took many wives, and she was not looking for a husband. Pippin painfully explained that he could no longer be her lover. She did not speak to him for days. When once again she did, it was as if their affair had never happened. For a while Pippin was thankful for that. Now it troubled him.

He looked at her, concerned and wary. "I'm sorry for everything."

She said nothing, draping the edge of her headscarf and veil over her knees like a blanket. "Worry not," she finally said. "Let it be forgotten."

"But I don't want to forget." He waited for her reply, any reply, like a fellow in a calm waiting for the wind to strike.

But Zeah said nothing, nor did she look in his direction, or favor him with a glance or a slap. She simply gazed up into the sky, and after a moment that felt unending, Pippin did the same.

"Diamond," Zeah said.

Pippin let out a breath. "Yes? What about her?"

"Did you ever love her?"

Pippin thought. The quick answer, was no; she had been chosen for him; they had been strangers to each other; she was too proud, he too changed, to be more than strangers. They had both been too young.

But even as he thought so, his mind slipped past cold silences and bitter arguments, past dinners spent without a word passing and nights spent apart, she in the satiny cotton of Lebennin sheets, he in the roughspun bedclothes of some barmaid's chamber; slipped to a day after their third anniversary.

Pippin had taken Diamond on a visit to her childhood haunts in the Northfarthing. As they rode, he noticed how, as the miles dropped away, her icy reserve and haughty demeanor did too, as the passed the Three-Farthing Stone and entered her old country.

"My lady," he said.

"My lord."

"Have you ever been in Bindbole Wood?"

"Yes, often."

"Might you have spotted an Entwife?"

"And what is an Entwife?" A light was in her eyes and the wind was in her hair; and she turned to him and he saw the hint of a smile upon her lips.

"The wife of an Ent, of course," he replied, and told her the story Treebeard told them. When he finished, she looked almost moved.

"Perhaps we should go in and look for ourselves," she suggested. And that moment was the moment Pippin started to wonder.

They didn't, of course; but that visit to the poor and beautiful valley of Long Cleeve was one of the most pleasant times they had experienced as husband and wife. A month afterward, she announced she was with child, and he embraced her until she scolded. At the proper time Faramir was born, and she let him name him that even though no one who mattered had ever had it before. The Tooks enjoyed it; it fit into the family.

"One of these days I'll take you to see the man you're named for," Pippin told his newborn son, gazing in wonder at the child's eyes already beginning to turn green, at the full head of fluffy chestnut-brown curls. "What do you say to that, my lady?" he asked his wife.

Diamond sighed, and for a moment, Pippin thought she'd say yes.

"Yes," Pippin said to Zeah, sitting under the stars in the midst of the tents in the oasis. "I suppose I did love her, once or twice, however briefly. I thought perhaps after our son was born, things would get better. Instead he became just another subject for us to fight about."

He shrugged. "I didn't marry for love. I didn't even marry for friendship. I'd never have cared to know her if she hadn't been betrothed to me. I don't expect to find her waiting for me when I return. Why should she? Our Rules are as strict as your law when it comes to things like this: when a husband abandons his wife, she has every right to a divorce." Now he laughed. "I really shouldn't expect any sort of welcome. Prodigal, rebel, runaway … you can be as wild as you want if you're a Took, but never go against the Tooks. By running away, I've done that. They've probably disowned me by now."

He heard Zeah exhale and turned to her. She gazed sidelong at him, and then said, "May I tell you something unlovely about yourself?"

Pippin, taken aback, nodded. "Please do."

"Sometimes you sound like a petulant boy." Zeah looked away into the sky. She continued, "I much prefer you smiling. Riding upon Miraz with a carefree smile on your face, as if all the sands, and plains, and seas, and countries of the world altogether are too small for you. That is the Peregrin Took I love."

Pippin, speechless, got up onto his knees and kissed her. It lasted only a moment; then he turned his head and pressed it against her cheek as he hugged her, saying, "I'm sorry."

Footsteps behind them made them both turn. It was Hoz.

"Father is to make his decision. Come."

* * *

It seemed to Pippin that the prophet of Er had aged since he had last seen him. Shadows now lurked beneath Zedek's eyes, and the lines on his face were deeper and more tightly drawn. Yet that face was resolute as he rose from his seat, staff in hand; and his eyes were bright as ever.

"For our guests, the son of Fëanor and the son of Paladin, I shall speak as a man of the West," he began in Westron, "and also for the words I shall speak were not spoken first by me, but by a king of the downfallen land of long ago. War is counseled, war against the Man of Seht, Sehty the sorcerer, and his enthralléd kingdom. And why? He has enslaved innocents and attacked his neighbors; he has transformed the Valley into a place of fear and might. He promotes with dark arts the power of his idol, Seht; and that alone is an affront to Er. So war is counseled me.

"Yet I know that war, though it be righteous, though it be just, though it be called by me holy—war brings sorrow, sorrow and death.

"I am the prophet of Er, as my father was before me, and his father before him; as my son the captain shall be after me." Zedek looked kindly at Hoz, and also at Zeah; and finally he glanced at Pippin. "It is given to me to find the will of Er, and bring it to men. It is also my duty to justify the ways of men to Er.

"The question is war; and so, as Meneldur King of Westernesse said long ago, shall I '_put iron in the hands of captains of conquest, and count the slain as our glory, and say to Er, at least Your enemies were amongst them? Or shall I fold hands, while friends die, and live in blind peace until the ravisher comes? What will then we do: match naked hands against naked might and die in vain, or flee, and say to Er, at least we spilled no blood? Both ways lead to evil._' So spake the King over the Sea, whose subjects brought the faith of Er to our people."

Zedek shook his head. "He did not choose, but chose to leave the choice to his son." He gazed again at Hoz, and again at Zeah. "But I must choose. And so I choose now."

He raised his staff and spoke in a tone of command. "We shall join with the Queen Yses and her guards. We shall aid them in their fight for liberation. We shall bring the might of the desert upon the Valley, until it is cleansed of the darkness of Seht.

"Send riders to all our people," he commanded. "Send messengers in secret to Yses, and to any who would aid us in this task. I call all Erayyim, men, women, and children," said Zedek, "to war."

* * *

3.

* * *

Zet Pallan burst into activity, and many knew no rest that night. Hoz commanded Medzhai upon the swiftest steeds to summon all their number to the Mountain of Er, west, north, and south.

"I will bring the message to Yses," said Zeah.

"No, sister," said Hoz firmly. Zeah's eyes flashed, but Hoz stood resolute. "You are known now to the Temple Guard, and to Sehty. The same goes for you, Pippin," he added, forestalling Pippin's impetuous suggestion. "My heart tells me Er has another task for you in this great matter."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Pippin muttered. "What about the Bani?"

"I have sent riders and birds to watch the southern marches as far as we can see," Hoz replied. "If and when they come, the Plainsmen will be a great ally to our cause."

"Especially if they come with _mumakil_," Zeah added.

Pippin remembered that Asouk was dubious of bringing oliphaunts along the Longest River, but then he thought, these were different circumstances.

He left Zeah and Hoz and the Medzhai and went to the tent where Bangshar was resting. He found his friend covered with wet cloths and being fed lukewarm water mixed with goat's milk. Bangshar was awake and looked up at him with a wide, cracked smile.

"I thought I was still seeing things," he said to Pippin, reaching up for Pippin to clasp his hand. "Razar. The Great Rider have been kind after everything."

"Something like that," Pippin replied with a smile. "How are you, Bangshar?"

"Alive and awake," Bangshar said, "which is a surprise, since I lost my way a few days ago coming from Umbar. If I had not run into that Elf, I would be dead. He had food and water."

"Where were you going?" Pippin wanted to know. "What's happened to the ship? Where's Neimor, and Davy? Tell me everything!"

Bangshar smiled and told his story. After the storm that damaged the _Sword_, they had put into a succession of little harbors and villages, repairing and reprovisioning, and doing a little light piracy. "Nothing much." After perhaps five weeks of this, they decided to venture back into more frequented waters, to see how much of a bounty was still on their heads, if any. They found out quickly, and were engaged by another Corsair ship that they defeated in a duel that ended with the opposing ship sunk by the shoals off Cape Andrast.

Unfortunately, the Gondorin navy had resumed control of Belfalas, and one of the new double-hulled, three-masted war galleys had stopped the _Sword_ and arrested its crew. They were taken as far as Pelargir and brought before the Steward of Gondor himself.

"Then the Steward said to the captain, 'Are you not Mornel, a Ranger of Arnor?' To which the captain said, 'Neimor, if you please, and a pirate.' Then the Steward sent us away to be held while he spoke with the captain. I don't know of what they spoke. But that night, we found the captain at the door of our cell, Davy and I; and he was opening our cells and freeing us. We stole our way through the lord's house in Pelargir and managed to arm ourselves when our flight was detected.

"Oh, Razar, it was a glorious fight! We boarded that trim galley of theirs and made as if to steal it, and you should have seen the look on their faces when it seemed we were going to do so! Ah, but the captain has only one love upon the sea. That was his plan all along, you see.

"Imagine the looks on the harbor-master and the captain of the navy and on all the soldiers as their bright new ship foundered right at port, while the Sword of the Seas slipped her berth and raced away under the darkened moon! And the captain climbed onto the poop deck and ordered our black flags to fly, and so we sailed.

"We came to Umbar to a hero's welcome. All was forgiven for our feat against the navy of Gondor.

"Loaded with booty, the captain offered to disband the crew. I decided it was time to do as I said, and buy a horse and go seek my sister's fate and my own road home.

"I have been seeking the desert nomads for I was told they have lore of many lands. But I am not as skilled as I could be in traveling through a sea of sand. I lost my path and wandered from spring to spring as best I could, hoping to find this so-called holy Mountain where the nomads had assembled. I heard of wars and rumors of wars as well.

"Three days ago, near the end of my tether, I came across another rider coming from the east. So I came into the company of the Elf. Together we sought this place. I believe the Elf called the birds of the nomads. And so here we are. But now, tell me how you came to this place. How did you survive the sea? And do you know what happened to the first mate?"

So Pippin told the story, much abridged, of his journeys with Asouk, from the mysterious help of the leviathans to the traverse of the Plains of the Sun to the installation of Asouk as chief of all his People. He mentioned his capture by the Nekheti, rushing over the circumstances of the barge and the box and his experiences there. He spoke about the capture of Zeah, and the true identity of the magician Sehty as Alatar the Blue, and of the chase across the Longest River into the desert pursued by a sandstorm. At the end of it Bangshar shook his head and laughed.

"There is a word for you in my land," he informed Pippin. "_Terik_."

"Sounds familiar," Pippin replied, taking one of the cloths from Bangshar's head and refreshing it in a basin of water. "What does it mean?"

"Fool," said Bangshar. "But a special kind of fool: not a simpleton, but someone so reckless as to be clearly unwise, yet whose daring warms the hearts of the gods. Wherever the fool may go, in whatever place he finds himself, he will find himself with whatever grace he requires, to keep going."

Pippin made no reply for a long time. Finally he made himself smile. "No," he said, "that's not me."

"It's a good, if dangerous, thing to be."

Pippin laughed. "Danger? Well, if you wish to talk about danger," and he eagerly changed the subject, "I think there's going to be a war on." He spoke about the meeting. "And that fellow who rescued you—he's quite an Elf."

Bangshar shuddered. "I owe him my life for his kindness. But he scares me, Razar. All Elves do, but he is so _old_."

"I know," Pippin agreed with a serious nod. _Like Galadriel, but dark, with nothing to temper his grief._ "Still, I think he intends to help us."

"Us? You will take part in this?"

"Did I say 'us'?" That must have been a slip of the tongue. "Well, I meant the Erites. I'm going to Umbar. I plan to sail back to Gondor."

"You are going home," said Bangshar wistfully.

Pippin didn't tell his friend that he doubted anyplace would truly be home; but the Shire was a good country, where he had friends and family; it would have to do. Until the next time the wanderlust came upon him.

He felt someone join them, and saw Bangshar's eyes widen, and turned to see the Elf.

"How do you fare?" he asked Bangshar.

"The doctor tells me I'll be on my feet by tomorrow," the Easterling replied, not taking his eyes off his visitor.

"That is good." The Elf paused. "You," he said to Pippin. "You are Peregrin."

Pippin nodded. "Peregrin Took, at your service."

"Offer not your service to me lightly," said the Elf with a gleam in his eyes. "For I may require it of you."

"It's too late now," Pippin replied, "for I've given it to you all the same. It's only polite."

"Polite," repeated the Elf. "Rest well," he said to Bangshar with a bow. "If it please you, I shall sing for you, and aid in some small way your recovery."

Bangshar looked uncomfortably at Pippin, but said, "If you want to," looking dubious.

"I do," said the Elf. "I shall return with my harp. halfling, walk with me."

It was not a request.

* * *

4.

* * *

They were barely out of the tent when Pippin spoke first.

"Are you really the same Maglor from Elder Days?"

The Elf nodded. "Yes, I am. Do you wish for proofs?"

"I'll take your word for it. Why are you here?"

"Surely as you have been to the City of the Hawk, and seen the mechanism in stone being built therein, you already know the answer to your question. But I shall answer you, if you will answer a question of mine. I come, of course, for the Silmaril. It is mine; or, at least, it was, and claim it do I still, though truly I had wished it never fished from its long home in the heart of the Sea. But it has come again within reach, and I am sworn to reach for it."

The Elf brooded darkly, something Pippin had never before beheld in Elves: it was terrible and frightening. Then Maglor turned to him and said, "And you: who are you, Peregrin Took? Why are you here?"

"To tell the truth, I don't know anymore. I just … am."

"A wanderer, then."

"That's my name, or they tell me. What have you been doing with yourself for the past …" He reckoned hard. " … five _thousand_ years?"

The ancient Elf laughed. "Wandering."

They came to the place where the horses were tethered. The Elf went to his steed, caressing its cheeks and murmuring soft phrases to it in his own language, which the other horses heeded. From his pack he produced a simple harp. He noticed Pippin's interest and asked, "Do you play, wanderer?"

"Not a harp. But I can carry a tune."

"You must lend me a tune in the days to come." Maglor gazed up into the sky. "And days there will be yet, whatever happens here upon this corner of the wide and weary world."

"My lord?" asked Pippin.

"Maglor."

"Maglor then. Pippin, or even Pip."

"Pippin."

"Maglor, what is it really like?"

"What is what truly like?"

"Aman. The Blessed Land." Pippin's voice faltered. "I have friends … kin there."

For an instant grief ravaged the Elf's face. Pippin took a step back, terrified.

Then Maglor mastered himself, and gazed as an Elf would: sorrowfully and full of regret.

"A land like any other, but neither time nor death nor the long slow tale of years may touch it. Undying, and beyond reach since the breaking of the world, but to those deemed worthy. All the Eldar who wish to go, all Quendi. And those the Valar grace. Such as your kin."

"You know of them?"

"I was far from the North-west of Middle Earth, but I heard tell at the time. The fall of Sauron was remarked throughout all Arda this side of the Sea. It was a great deed, what your Iorhael did."

"That's what they call him in Gondor," said Pippin, unable to conceal his bitterness. "An Elf-friend, like Beren and Tuor."

"The two were brave Men. I remember them well." Maglor patted his horse. "Pray the fallen wizard fails in his madness, or we shall see Aman indeed, when he activates his machine."

They made their way back to the tent. "That triangular building around the Silmaril is a machine?" Pippin asked.

"The order and measure of its chambers is known somewhat to me. It is a magnifier of power, made for one purpose: to open the Straight Road by force."

"I heard that before, but I still can't understand," Pippin said. "Why would he want to do this? Does he want to conquer the Undying Land? Is he mad? Not even the Númenóreans could do that. Nekhet doesn't even know how to make steel!"

"I know not his purpose," the Elf replied. "Nor care. I care he has laid claim of possession upon my father's work, the Silmaril I held in this hand." He showed his right hand to Pippin; it was whole, but its skin showed the hideous scars of a terrible burn, as if it had been set into a fire and left there. Pippin swallowed at the mark of the Silmaril upon an unworthy hand. "That claim I cannot suffer."

Pippin recalled the story of the Silmarils and the terrible oath of Fëanor and his sons. "I suppose you can't," he said softly. "Will you take it when the Erites attack?"

"The wars of men are no longer my concern, but it seems meet to seize the chances presented to us. Yes, I intend to take it.

"And moreover, I want you to help me."

Pippin halted. He stared at the Elf. "You can't be serious."

Maglor advanced on him, his eyes agleam. "The Silmaril is set in a crystal orb surmounted upon a golden chalice set upon a silver mast that neither I nor any other speaking creature can climb. The structure of the chamber now housing it is such that one cannot climb down to take it. The pillar is set in foundations of Númenórean make, unbreakable by any craft we have at hand. It cannot be toppled.

"To take it, one must climb the tower, onto the capital, and pry the jewel from its crystal. Perhaps once I could have done it myself, but no longer. Men cannot do it. Only a small and nimble creature can do so. I have no patience training monkeys. When I saw you in the market, I thought perhaps you would do.

"Now, after speaking with you, and discerning your mind …"

Pippin realized the whole conversation had been spent unguarded to the Elf's sight. So Maglor had gained his knowledge of the plans of the Stairway: he had taken it from unguarded and unknowing minds. Pippin closed the door to his mind, but it was too late. The Elf continued as if Pippin had done nothing.

" … I feel I should not coerce you, but rather, ask. Pippin, I am in need of a thief. What say you?" Maglor smiled. "Shall we steal a Silmaril?"

* * *

"So what do you say, Pip?" Merry asked.

Pippin frowned. The tree seemed awfully high, even for him. All this for a kite?

"I don't know," he told Merry.

Next to Merry, Myrtle Burrows burst into tears. Estella comforted her with a pat on the back, and gave Merry a look.

Merry sighed. He was twenty-two and just discovered Fatty Bolger's sister was very pretty. "Come on, Pippin. You're the only one who can climb that high." He put his hands on Pippin's shoulders. "Come on. Do it and maybe Myrtle will give you a kiss."

"No I won't! Lads are smelly!"

Pippin didn't find the offer very appealing either. "Girls are a bother," he said.

Estella was smirking at Merry, who seemed quite unaware but for the gleam in his eyes. "All right then, I guess we'll just have to try to knock it down," he said. "Where's a rock?"

"No!" Myrtle protested. "You'll ruin it!"

"But it's a very high tree, Myrtle dear," Merry explained to the young hobbit girl. "Even Peregrin Took is daunted from time to time."

Pippin heard that. "I am not!" he protested, and without another word, leapt for a low branch and began to climb.

Up, up, up he went, until he got so high he felt like a giant in a story told by Cousin Bilbo before he went away. He reached for the small white kite, and with his last reckless reach obtained it; but instead of climbing down saw how high he was and decided he liked it up there.

"Merry! Look at me, I'm an eagle!" And Pippin stood on the branch and spread his arms.

"Very funny, young hobbit," said Merry sternly. "Now stop that and finish what you set out to do, and mind you don't end up killing anyone, such as yourself for example."


	13. Imperishable

_Part XII_

**Imperishable**

* * *

The waning moon rose near midnight. Pippin saw it through the bottom edge of his tent cloth. It came over the dunes like a silver bow, bright yet not bright enough to silence the stars. He went over rhymes of lore in his head:

_Hungry was Tilion, a hunter  
He sought Arien's bright smile  
Their courtship was a chase  
A secret kiss they share_

He rolled onto his back and stared at the patterns on the roof of his tent, changing in the dim lamplight.

He sat up and told the tent, "I can't sleep." The tent did not reply.

He rose and donned his vest. He tucked his dagger into his breeches and his pipe in his vest pocket and went for a walk. As ever the stars shone with a clear light on the whitened dunes, and even the weak and wandering moon cast shadows in his eyes.

Pippin circled through the camp. He paused at a fire where some men were gathered, smoking and drinking, and gratefully accepted some pipeweed and a sip of coffee. He went to the physicians' tent, but Bangshar was sleeping, as were the nurses. Bangshar was almost well; he had walked about camp today, and hale enough to offer his services to Hoz for the coming war. Pippin wondered why Bangshar would do that. Hadn't he been through enough? He wanted to ask him, but not now.

He left the physicians' tent and walked long until he reached the Medzhai camp. He nodded back at the guards, and asked if Hoz was awake. No, he was told. The prophet's son was abed. Was there anything the traveler needed?

"No, thank you, I'm fine," Pippin replied.

He went further out to the paddock to see Swallow, but the willful filly was either deep in slumber or ignoring him. Pippin suspected the latter, but gave up trying to rouse her.

At the edge of the camp he paused, and then climbed a dune to its crest, and there plunked himself down, finding himself with a view north from horizon to horizon. The desert ergs that lapped up against the massif of Gar bet-Eria stretched north as far as he could see. Somewhere beyond the edge of sand was Umbar. In his imagination he saw himself flying over the great city's domes and minarets and over the bay of Belfalas, past Tolfalas with its granaries, Dol Amroth and the castle of the Prince upon the shore, past Pelargir on Ethir Anduin up the river and round the bend to the White City shining above the Pelennor. Under the bridge of Osgiliath, up the Falls of Rauros, to Lothlorien … across the Misty Mountains … Rivendell … the Lone-lands … Bree … Buckland. Would Merry be waiting at the Gate?

Across the Brandywine Bridge, and into the Shire. Taste the beer at Stock. Best in the Eastfarthing. Would Fatty be throwing a party at Budge Hall?

Would there be a party this year beneath the mallorn in the party field? Sam threw the best parties; or, rather, Rosie, at Sam's behest. When was the 22nd of September? Had he missed it? What month was it? How long had he been gone? How much longer would he be away? Was it months, or years?

Through the Green Hill Country, through Tuckborough with its many-colored shutters … to Great Smials, its windows glittering up the hillside. Would the Great Door open for him?

Would there be a puff of smoke coming from the Thain's study?

Would a little child be walking when he saw him again, and would he walk to him if he stretched out his hands; would he call him "dad" … would he ever again dance with a girl as hard and precious as a jewel …

Gandalf was right. He was a fool.

He saw Zeah walking up the slope of the dune to join him. She was in a loose robe and a long dress she used for sleeping. Her hair was lightly bound by a sheer veil.

"Is something wrong?" he asked first.

"I woke and now do not feel like sleeping," she replied. "There is lightning in the air—can you feel it?"

Pippin tried, but shook his head. "I guess I can't. I'd be happy to keep you company, though."

"Yes," she said simply. "Are you not cold?"

Pippin shook his head. "Not really." The air was indeed chill, but he liked it. "I've seen real cold," he said, thinking of the Redhorn Pass. "This is actually quite pleasant."

"Have you ever seen snow?"

He smiled. "Yes, I have. Many times."

"I see." She traced a shape into the sand between them, and erased it with her palm. "What is it like?"

He smiled and told her, "Like the fall of butterfly wings; that's the best kind of snow."

"Are there others?"

Hard snow, freezing snow, wet snow, slurries, sleet … "That's the only kind I care to think about."

"I have never seen it," she said. "My uncle used to say that the Grey Mountains to the west have snow in winter. Perhaps one day I shall journey there."

"Or you could come visit me." Pippin's hand drifted to hers and clasped it. "It doesn't snow often in my country, but when it does, it is something I think everyone should see."

Zeah looked down at him. Pippin's breath caught in his throat.

"I love you," he told her.

"Do not say that and then leave," she replied.

"Then I won't leave."

She laughed at him. "Would you stay?"

Pippin thought about his father, his wife, and his son. And he also saw Merry, folding his arms.

" … If I could," he answered.

She smelled of pepper and cinnamon. Her lips tasted like cucumber. With a small tug of her fingers, she let her veil slip down, showing her hair.

It was Pippin who chose to pull away before they went any further.

"Why does this happen to me?" he asked her with a pained laugh. "Why here? Why now? Why not there, and why not then?"

Zeah came up against him, resting her chin upon his head. Pippin leaned into her neck and pressed his cold cheek to her warm throat.

"I first met you in a dream I had," he whispered to her, "and I thought you were her. I thought you were Diamond."

A tremor ran through her. He looked up. She was smiling slightly, and shaking her head. "What is it?" he asked.

"Do you still wish to learn what 'Almas' means?"

He didn't know what this was about, but nodded. Of course he did.

"It means diamond," she said.

He backed away, his fingers digging into the sand, regarding her in confusion and wonder. "What?"

"Oh, Pippin," she said with a shake of her head, seeming both amused and aggrieved. "Do you not see?" She took his hand and pressed it. "You don't truly love me. Only how much you wish me to be her."

"That's not true! You're nothing alike!"

"No?" And for a moment, in her arch, knowing look and the way she held herself, he did see Diamond.

"No," he said, rallying. "You're a woman and she's a hobbit. You're dark and she's pale. You're …"

_Proud_, he found himself about to say, and there it was. Proud and cold and hard on the surface, because that was how she survived. With a sudden clarity Pippin finally comprehended Diamond of Long Cleeve.

"Oh," he said. "Oh."

He withdrew. Zeah wrapped her arm around his neck, her veil caressing the skin of his shoulders.

"No matter how you think you love me, you will always see her," Zeah said. "I don't want that, Pippin, for me, or for you. You must find where you belong."

"I hope it sends me directions," he joked helplessly. "Because I can't find it on my own."

"You will," Zeah answered firmly. "You will find it if you let it find you."

They sat with each other as the moon climbed over snow-white sands.

"What are you thinking?"

"Too many things. I shouldn't think so hard. I'm not made for it. I think my head is beginning to hurt."

"Poor thing."

"Don't make fun of me because I'm stupid."

Zeah laughed and began to hum, and sway, and sing. To their surprise, a voice answered her, taking up her melody and making of it a deep and special music full of longing and of beauty. Seeking its source Pippin spotted the black-robed figure of Maglor some distance away, his harp in his hand.

"Listen to that," Pippin said.

"The Elf?" Zeah asked, the first time she had used the word.

Pippin smiled. "Yes."

"It is wonderful," she admitted, and got to her feet.

She held out her hands to him. "Dance with me, Pippin."

"What, me? Now?"

"Yes, you. Now."

He took her hands and let her lift him to his feet. Then he let go and she flashed a grin and skipped ahead, dancing down the dune to the notes of the elven song. Her veil rippled in the breeze with her hair, and Pippin's heart quickened with delight, and he propelled himself down the slope, crowing as he leapt and tumbled in a sparkling avalanche of sand. Zeah took his hand again and they spun around, laughing, jumping, moving, to the melody. And then the wind shifted and somewhere nearby the dunes themselves began to chime.

* * *

2.

* * *

The next day Pippin was awoken by a messenger boy and told that Hoz sought his presence as soon as possible.

When he arrived at the chief's pavilion, the leaders of the tribes and Medzhai captains were dispersing with faces grave, troubled, excited, or fierce. Then Hoz strode out, looking serious, though he smiled as he saw Pippin.

"Ah, Pippin! I am glad you have come," said Hoz. "You have arrived at the right moment. We have just completed a council. Father has named me commander of the army." As he spoke, others emerged from the great tent: Zedek himself, followed by Zeah, and then, to his surprise, Maglor and Bangshar.

"Is the war starting soon?" Pippin asked, looking around.

"Indeed," said Hoz. "Before sunrise we received word from a scout. An army of Plainsmen march north along the course of the Longest River, in the desert west of the west bank."

"Plainsmen? Do you mean the Bani?" Pippin said excitedly. "They've come north?"

"Yes," Hoz replied. He took a stick and began to incise a map into the dirt. Pippin made out the course of the Longest River, Nekhet, the Mountain, and the Stairway. Hoz pulled a pebble into a spot south of Zet Pallan and equally distant from it and from Nekhet. "They have managed to make it to this point without being reported, and with the majority of their force still intact. It is a great accomplishment for those who have no knowledge of the desert."

"Their leader has some knowledge," Pippin said. "That would be Asouk. He's their chief now, and a mighty man and warrior. He's my friend."

"The first mate!" cried Bangshar. "You told me he had returned to his people and become a ruler, but you say it is he who leads this army?"

"I don't know it," Pippin replied, "but it has to be." He addressed them all. "He was very angry at how the Nekheti had turned slavers and attacked his people, being a former slave himself. He said if he had to cross the desert to bring justice, he'd do it."

"He has come close," Hoz said. "And he has brought almost a thousand men, and five _mumakil_ with battle-forts. But he is now in danger."

He made another mark in the sand. "Our spies in Nekhet say the Plains army has now been marked. They are sending one of their regiments to attack it in the desert."

"Nekhet has ten regiments," Zeah explained. "Five scattered along the Valley from the Sixth Cataract to the Delta, and five within the city itself, including the Queen's Guards under our friend Mery, and the Temple Guards whom we also met." She winked and Pippin couldn't stop a smile. But his smile faded as Zeah continued, "Each regiment has from five hundred to seven hundred soldiers and as many as a hundred chariots."

"They will come upon the Plainsmen," Hoz said, "and seek to destroy them ere they come to the City of the Hawk."

"But we've got to help them!" Pippin exclaimed. "I'll go now. My horse is the fastest in the desert. I can go now and warn them!"

"No, halfling," said Maglor.

"But—"

"I am going," said Hoz, sheathing his sword. "And I will not be alone. The Medzhai will come with me, the seven swiftest companies of riders from our forces here. With haste, skill and the will of Er, we shall find the Plainsmen before Sehty's soldiers do."

Pippin nodded. "Great! I'm coming with you."

"No, you are not. The lord Maglor has requested you assist him in his own mission."

Pippin turned to the son of Fëanor. "You told them?" he asked, flabbergasted.

"I think it is a good idea, Pippin," said Zeah.

"Oh, now you're on _his_ side?"

"The wizard's sole aim in all this has been to build his machine and use the Silmaril," reminded Maglor. "Taking it from him will lead to his defeat. You are our best hope."

"I'm _your_ best hope, you mean," Pippin accused. "You don't care about the Bani or the Erites or that Nekhet will lose its Star. You don't even care about me."

Maglor's eyes flashed. "Silence, halfling. My brothers would not have suffered such insolence."

"I know. I heard the story. They all died."

"Pippin …" sighed Hoz.

Pippin turned on him. "I'm not going to risk my life for a _bauble_ when Asouk is in danger!"

"A Silmaril is no mere bauble!" thundered Maglor.

"It doesn't mean more than my friend's life! Not to me!" Pippin shot back.

The others were shaken by the fury of the great Elf, and were just as speechless at the hobbit's fearless defiance. With a withering look at Maglor, Pippin turned to Hoz. "Let me come with you."

Hoz frowned. "No, I do not think so."

Pippin glared at him. Then he spun around and ran away.

Both Bangshar and Zeah started to follow, but Zedek broke his silence and raised his staff.

"Let him be," said the prophet. "He struggles with the choice he has yet to make. Our fates, though he knows it not, are now in his hands. He must decide himself. This have I seen."

"Let us hope the One gives you true visions, holy man," said Maglor.

Zedek nodded. "Let us hope."

* * *

Pippin thought first to go get Swallow and go find Asouk, wherever he may be. But in his anger and frustration he paid no attention to what path he chose, and he ran on and on, past tent and camp and booth and boulder, until finally, out of breath and shaking, he found himself in the hallow of Er. With the feast long over, there were no more pilgrims, nor any other Man there; all that was left of the great blaze was a patch of burning scrub, no smaller than a campfire, small and merry.

Before he realized what he was doing Pippin stepped past the bounds of taboo and set foot on the ground of the hallow. His bare feet pressed into the ashy sand as he paced in nervous anger, turning this way and that like an agitated bird.

He stopped before the little flame and sank into a squat, folding his arms and muttering. He demanded, "What am I supposed to do?"

He sprang up and resumed pacing. "I've got to warn Asouk," he decided. "I've got to go to him! I don't care where he is or how far. It's partly my fault he ever came back here. That he went home and found it in peril. He's doing this because he's a good man and because I led him to it. He's my friend. I've got to help him."

Then he turned again. "But Maglor's right! Alatar's the problem. The object of the war is overthrowing him and freeing the slaves, and the people of Nekhet itself. I've got to remember that."

He sighed and stopped and knelt again. The wee fire still sang to itself. "And I can't say it isn't the grandest thing to try," he said wistfully. "To see a Silmaril up close, the last one on earth—and to steal it, like Beren Onehand and Luthien Tinuviel. Oh!" he shuddered with temptation, "now _that's_ something no hobbit has ever done!"

At length he shook his head. "I don't know. I don't know what to do. Maybe I should just forget all this and ride for Umbar right now. I don't need another battle. The edge of this one's just as sharp as that other." He sat on his ankles and folded his hands in his lap, and said:

"I wish Gandalf were here."

"Will I do?"

Pippin looked up, startled. Somehow the brightness of the morning had turned to twilight. The Mountain and the hallow still looked the same—but wait, was it Gar bet-Eria, or Meneltarma? Where was he? And who—?

Someone was warming their hands by the little fire. It was a hobbit, with dark hair and old-wise eyes.

Pippin gaped.

"Don't be scared, Pippin," said Frodo Baggins. "You're only dreaming."

Faintly Pippin protested: "But I'm not sleeping."

"But you're dreaming nonetheless," Frodo assured.

* * *

"Are you dead?" That was Pippin's first question to his cousin, or what looked like his cousin, a slender dark-haired hobbit with a perky expression and a bright eye and a cleft in his chin, taller than some, fairer than most, standing in the light of the fire. "Is that it? You're dead, and you've come to haunt me as a punishment for my wrongs."

"I assure you I am very much alive," said Frodo. "But I'm not really here. Neither are you, actually. I'm in Elvenhome, and you're somewhere in Far Harad, I think. How on earth did you manage to get yourself there, Pippin?"

"I haven't a clue," Pippin replied. "Things … happened."

"I'm sure they did," Frodo said fondly. "Still Pippin after all these years."

"Yes and no," said Pippin. "Sometimes I barely recognize myself as who I was. Sometimes I don't know who I was."

"Oh, you'll figure it out. Like you will your problem. It's not really a problem, you know."

Pippin blinked. "Ten years across the Sea makes you start talking like Gandalf?"

Frodo smiled wryly. "Olorin visits so often he practically lives with me. So, what have you decided to do?"

"Decided?" Pippin said. "My dear Frodo, have you lost your memory across the Sea? I'm Pippin. I seldom make decisions, and the ones I do make turn out to be wrong nine times out of ten. And the one time I choose right was nothing but blind luck."

"Don't be tiresome, Peregrin Took," Frodo scolded, immediately reducing Pippin to six years old. "You are among the great of the Age that has past, and in this Age that has come. You are wiser than anyone ever gave you credit for, especially yourself. Shame on you. Make your choice."

"My choice?"

"What to do today. Ride to your friend? Go with the Elf? Go home?"

"I don't know! You tell me!" Pippin got an idea. "That's it!" he exclaimed, snapping his fingers. "That's why I'm dreaming this. You've come to tell me what to do, haven't you? The Lords of the West have sent you as a messenger, to tell me what to do! Oh, Frodo, Frodo, my dear old Frodo!"

"What leaf have you been stuffing your pipe with, Pippin?" said Frodo crossly. "I am not here to choose for you. I am not even here. And even if I could, I wouldn't; beyond the Veil we only watch, we do not act. Acting is for you. Choices are for you."

"But I'll choose wrong!" Pippin cried. "Look at where I am, Frodo. I have a wife. I have a son. My father was teaching me how to be Thain and head of the family. And what did I choose to do? Run. _To the ends of the earth._ Ten years hasn't helped! It's only expanded the magnitude of my foolishness!" He moaned and covered his face. "Frodo," he said, thinking of the Fellowship, "I was the least of us."

"You were the youngest," Frodo corrected firmly. "Not the least."

Pippin felt a warm, dry hand touch his face, lifting up his eyes by a tug of his chin. It had four fingers. Writer's calluses marked its middle finger and thumb.

"My little cousin," said Frodo. "I love you in a special way, did you know that? You remind me of Bilbo, as I imagined him when he went on his adventure. Gandalf saw it too. You know how much he loved you, despite how much you irritated him. Maybe even because of it. He was always on the lookout for the Took in all of us, that spark he could kindle into greatness—but with you he found a firework waiting to be lit. I'm not excusing what you've done ill. But I want you to remember what you've done well: asking questions, following your heart. Being bold, and daring, and yes, even a little bit reckless. You are a good hobbit and true, Peregrin Took, with a kind heart. You care and you try, and that's all that can be asked of anyone, though it's done by all too few." Frodo smiled. "Now, now. What's these tears, then?"

Pippin realized he was crying, but how? He was smiling. He reached for the hand near him, the hand with three fingers, and oh, it felt real. Right. Warm and alive. Flowing with health, with light, with no trace of Shadow or pain, except for the mark of the freely and foolishly given pity that had somehow saved the world.

He asked, "Gandalf …"

"What about him, my dear?"

"Does he miss me too?"

Frodo gazed in sympathy upon him. "Of course he does. He loves you."

"Have I made him angry at me?"

"What do you think?"

"I want to make him happy with me."

"Then decide what to do with what's been given to you," said Frodo. "And decide well, little cousin!"

And then Pippin blinked in the hard sunshine of the desert, in the hallow of Er.

He looked around, but he knew the vision, or dream, or whatever it was, had ended. His cousin was no longer here. Just himself, in the dirt, before the merry flame.

* * *

Hoz and Zeah were saddling their horses. Maglor and Zedek were speaking intensely with each other. Bangshar sat calmly on the ground, sharpening his jagged-toothed fighting blades. They all turned to look at him as Pippin returned.

"All right," said Pippin. He went to Maglor. "I will help you. I will steal the Silmaril from the Stairway. You may not have a right to it anymore, but neither does Alatar, and I don't want him to do anything with it or to it, not after what I've seen him do for it, the slaving and the spells and Osyr."

"I am grateful," said Maglor.

"Wait," Pippin said. "I wasn't finished. But first, you will help me help my friend Asouk."

"What?"

"You heard me," said Pippin. "These are my terms."

Maglor looked furious. "Your _terms?_"

"You asked for my help," Pippin answered. "And you'll have it. But I do this first. Or, you can go try to steal the gem without help or hope. And we both know how well _that_ went for you and your brothers."

"Halfling—"

"I told you: my name is Pippin." Pippin shook his head, shrugged his shoulders. "Maglor, I must do this, for my friend. There's a right way and a wrong way to do anything, especially burglary. I have a promise of my own, that I never told anyone, not even myself, but it's a promise I'll keep nonetheless. To be true to my friends. Of all your brothers, I thought you would understand. You're the only one who let a Silmaril go. This Silmaril, in fact. If you agree, then maybe you're not unworthy of it anymore."

He looked around. They were all staring at him, some agape. Did he sound that crazy? "Are you with me?"

"As you wish," said Hoz with a bow, seeing his father nod.

"So be it," said Maglor in resignation.

"I'm going with you," said Bangshar. "You'll need someone to watch your back."

"I shall come too," said Zeah, and Pippin beamed.

"Great," said Pippin. "Well then, what are we waiting for?"

As they went to prepare, Hoz stopped Pippin and asked, "How did you come to this decision?"

"Why, I went to your hallow of course," said Pippin. "I sat by the fire and, well, something came to me." He beamed at them and scurried off.

Hoz looked at his father. "We left no fire burning in the hallow …"

"No," Zedek nodded, "we did not."

* * *

Hoz had marshaled an army three thousand strong, resplendent in black and indigo. For the sortie south he summoned three hundred of the fastest riders. Hoz himself led them. With him at the vanguard was Bangshar on horseback; Maglor, armed with bow and sword, upon his own steed; and, riding together on Swallow, Zeah and Pippin. He caught Pippin's eye, and Pippin grinned.

Hoz took his falcon Serak from his shoulder onto his arm. "Go," he commanded, and the falcon took off, giving a keen cry.

"_Eria ekkad!_" Hoz shouted, the chilling war-cry of the Erites, "The One Is Lord"; and spurred his horse forward. Swallow followed, and the others, and then the hundreds of riders, heading south; but Swallow soon outstripped them all.

* * *

3.

* * *

The hunters had been two months traveling from the Plains to the Great Desert, and though they had brought food and water and were used to hardship, it was still a hard and suffering journey. The young men relied on their elders; the elders leaned on the young. They walked rapidly, in the morning and the evening and well into the night, even if they only had starlight to see by; they were Bani, lion-men who knew the night as well as the day. They numbered over a thousand, bearing spears in their hands and spears on their backs, twenty spears to a man, each tipped with leaflike heads of knapped flint as large as a man's foot; and clubs, and slings, and shields made of oxhide drawn wet over wet wood, bound with wet sinew, and all of it left to dry hard as drums and tough as bone. They marched in loose ranks, for they were not a warlike race, except those who came from the western jungle who had fought for the Eye in years past. But even these marched with their brothers of the east, summoned by the new headman of all their people, the king of Ngiranimo.

Asouk now looked out from where he stood at a great height at the sea of sand and the sudden cliffs, near and yet insuperable, of the Valley. He wore long breeches of Umbar, and his powerful shoulders were bare, but for the necklaces of gold and silver and teeth, and the single lion's tooth that named him a man; but around his waist he had wound a great crimson cloth, woven by his new-wed wife and her women, as a gift for the battle. For he had told her of the custom of the women of the far north-west of making banners for their husbands and loves ere they went to war. So beautiful Nibo wove a crimson sash for Asouk; and Asouk now wore it around his waist, its heavy weft lulling in the soft breeze, as he gazed upon the Valley of his enemies.

For many hundreds of leagues he had marched his hunters along the course of the Longest River, keeping it in sight, yet not daring set foot in the well-guarded vale for fear of alerting their enemies. But now the time for secrecy was drawing to a close.

It was the hour of the death of the cold night. In the far east, the Sun was speeding over unknown lands, and the line of her approach was racing to the horn of Far Harad upon the Bay of Ormal. The army had slept and taken breakfast of preserved melon, parched grain, and a sip of water from their waterskins. They had done so for many weeks now, rising before the morning, walking before the heat drove them to shelter under their shields and light cloaks and lion-skins. But those were not their only shelter. The hunters who came from the western jungles, those who had gone with the Haradrim of the coasts to the wars of the Eye, had brought more than spears and clubs with them.

Asouk stood upon the prow of a war-tower borne on the back of an oliphaunt. From its height he looked out over all but the highest of the dunes. Its rolling gait reminded him of a ship at sea. Behind him were fifty hunters, and those who needed to rest from marching; the beasts lifted up those who were weary with their trunks into the arms of his comrades, and returned the rested to the march. Unlike the war-beasts of the Haradrim, these had not been painted with symbols, other than the marks they would place on their own beloved cattle; and no unneeded spike or chain hindered their mighty feet, or bound their four spiraling tusks. Ten oliphaunts had gone north; five were left in condition for battle, but five _mumakil_ in battle, it was hoped, would be enough.

From his height Asouk now saw his scouts returning at a run from their patrols. They shouted warning, and Asouk raised his horn from his side and sounded it for all the army. They had finally been seen. Nekhet was coming.

The eastern sky was paling. The stars were being quenched by the first fingers of the still-unseen Sun. As he looked into the east, Asouk saw a cloud rising from the Valley cliffs, a cloud of dust being raised by horses' hooves. He seized his battle-staff and observed from the cloud emerge the shapes of the enemy: chariots, dozens, scores of chariots, and men behind them running, and the arrogant gleam of bronzework and gilding over cold cruel blue. The Sixth Regiment of Nekhet was coming out of the shadowed valley apace with the searing dawn.

Asouk took up his horn and blew a new note. The army stopped its journey. Hunters formed ranks, took up spears, sped up the sides of dunes from where they could cast their weapons long and deadly into their foes. The oliphaunts were marshaled into a line for a charge.

The men were frightened. They were hunters, and herders, and could face down lions; each one of them had faced a lion, if not killing one, wounding one, or surviving another's attack; it was the mark of a man. They were all men, all the thousand of them. But they were men with flint-tipped spears, and clubs of animal bone, and hide shields, and slingshots, against the arced bronze swords of the Nekheti and their unstoppable chariots. The _mumakil_, and boldness, would have to do.

On the next oliphaunt to Asouk was Dyomu. The wise hunter looked to his chief and nodded. Asouk did too, and ran his free hand absently over the sash on his waist. Then he raised his voice in a long, wild, wailing call, like and unlike the roar of a lion. The men of his army responded with cries of their own, and leaping, and banging spears against shields. The _mumakil_-drivers responded by ordering their beasts to walk forth.

The oliphaunts did so, crossing over the dune toward the coming chariots. One stumbled in the shifting sand, trumpeting its annoyance; men were shaken from its tower and fell. But the beast mastered its footing and joined its kindred. Now they were strolling, their strides crossing many yards of desert; the chariots were coming. The oliphaunts began to hasten. The charioteers left the foot-soldiers far behind. Dyomu raised his spear and bellowed. The _mumakil_ began to run, as the chariots rose over the last dune onto a flat gravel-plain. Now the oliphaunts were trumpeting, and a number of proven army-horses balked in terror at the coming behemoths. But only a number. The rest sped on, driven by loyalty or whips or fear, into the teeth of ivory.

A rank of chariots broke upon the tusks of the oliphaunts like sea-wreck upon the hardened bow of a Corsair ship. Others fell to the animals' feet, like forest-trees come to live and marching, crushing and stomping and grinding and swiping gore upon the sand. Horses and men were entwined in sapient trunks and hurled like chaff into the wind. Arrows and lances were cast knowing not how to wound the beasts; no oliphaunt had ever been seen alive in the Valley, certainly none at war.

But so big were the oliphaunts, and so few, that the greater number of the chariots passed through them like a stream passed boulders. And Asouk ran to the rear of the war-tower and saw his hunters face the coming of the chariots.

Spears flew and found marks, or bounced off bronze and wood. Arrows answered in reply, swifter and more accurate. Men died. Asouk told his driver to turn their steed around and go to the aid of the men, but then he saw the coming of the foot-soldiers of Nekhet, and rallied those with him to this new assault. For while slower and more vulnerable, the foot-soldiers were more numerous, and perhaps could lame or madden a _mumak_ with their cleverer attack.

Men and beasts fought in the quickening heat of dawn. The Sun was coming. She was upon the horizon. The stars were guttering, dying, blinking out, as the sky turned blue over the desert. Hunters with wood and stone fought against wheels and sickles of bronze. Asouk leapt down from the war-tower to fight in the midst of it all, his battle-staff laying down enemies in a ring all around him. But all was going ill. An oliphaunt stumbled, its ankles cut by hundreds of slashes; its tower fell to the ground with a crash.

The scarlet sash was stained with blood. Asouk had his great knife out, and heads and arms fell at his blows. His staff matched it for deadliness, but while he survived and dominated, his men, his army of hunters and herders, whom he had led from their green and thriving plains into the desert, would they survive? Make sail, and run; that was how the Corsairs would do it, if an engagement went ill, or took too long. But he had not that choice. It was fight or die upon the dunes. Or, rather, it was fight, and die anyway.

So be it. Asouk was no coward. A pirate would have chosen the more profitable course. He was pirate no longer.

The blue day passed the height of the sky. For no reason at all Asouk paused for a breath, and looked into the west. Thence came a breeze, and upon that breeze was the sound of galloping hooves.

Suddenly over the crest of a dune shot a falcon, wild and reckless and impetuous and free, and its cry pierced the empty sky. Asouk wondered at it, before beholding, behind the falcon, what followed it over the sand.

The Medzhai of the Erites rode out of the west, sheathed in robes of black and indigo, twice as many as Nekhet had sent chariots, and descended like a storm upon the waterless plain. Before them all were a pair of horses, one dapple-grey, one silver-black. The black horse bore two riders, both smaller than the others, one very small indeed, and that one, Asouk realized, was Pippin, a red-gold head bright in the beam of the dawn.

Asouk threw up his arms in crazed joy. "_O Sihorunebi m'Hobengo!_" he shouted as the horsemen fell into the battle. The tide turned, the Erites and the Bani fought back and overwhelmed the Nekheti, as the Sun left the horizon and with her fingers smote the sands.

* * *

The Medzhai pursued the surviving Nekheti into the sands, hoping to leave no tale of this battle until they were prepared to strike. Asouk stood among the slain, many Nekheti, some Erites, but far too many of his own people, and he stood still as stone with his eyes filling with grief.

Hoz came now to Asouk.

"I regret we failed to arrive earlier," he said in Haradi.

"Your arrival was something I had not thought to hope for," Asouk replied, gazing upon hunters old and young who had followed him north. "This was a foolish action from the beginning, and I rue it now."

"Nay," said Hoz. "Regret not the courage of a heart that's true, fool though it be." He looked past Asouk and smiled. "Behold, now comes such a heart."

_"Asouk!"_

Later the injured would be succored, and the slain buried. Hoz would outline his plans to Asouk, and they would swear allegiance to each other. A meager meal would be shared, and Maglor the Elf sing a song, as Bangshar and Asouk were reunited, with tales told and friendships renewed. But none of what took place in that lull between the first battle and the great one still to come could have been as joyous as that moment, as Pippin crashed into Asouk's arms and spun giddy round and round.


	14. The Battle of Nekhet

_Part XIV_

**The Battle of Nekhet**

* * *

The victors of the battle camped for a day, recovering their faculties for what lay ahead. Asouk was busy with matters of war, conferring with Hoz and his lieutenants, but at meals he went in search of Pippin and sat with him. There for as long as each could spare they sat and told each other of all they had done since they last were together. Pippin told of seeing Narok and Sanao flee Ngiranimo, and how he followed them into the clutches of the Nekheti soldiers. He skipped over the voyage down the Longest River, not wanting to upset his friend over his brush with despair. He spoke of Yses and Mery, and Asouk nodded, having heard of the Queen and her captain as potential allies in the coming war. Hoz was in some form of communication with them, he told Pippin.

"Then maybe we've got a good hope for the battle to come," Pippin said. "When will that be?"

"Tomorrow," Asouk said.

"It's too short a visit."

Then their talk turned to other things. That evening, dining around a fire, Bangshar joined them, and he and Asouk regaled the others with tales of adventure and buccaneering on the high seas. Some of the stories beggared even Pippin's imagination—the island of the treasure of the Forty Brigands, that turned out to be a giant Tortoise whose shell was overgrown with jungle, was one particularly suspect tale—but he enjoyed them all. The story of Neimor's escape from Pelargir and his triumphant return to Umbar, of course, was a favorite, with Bangshar enacting all the parts, and Asouk stirred by love, and drink, to raise a loud toast to the Sword of the Seas, may she ever sail! Zeah was regarding Bangshar with an appraising, inquisitive look, that Pippin noticed, and he drained his cup of water and sour wine and kept it to himself.

Into the night, as he was wont to do, Pippin went for a little walk to sit out beneath the stars, and tonight one by one they joined him: Asouk; Hoz; Zeah, accompanied by Bangshar; Dyomu; and even Maglor, who raised up a soft song. Pippin leaned his head on Asouk's stomach, listening contentedly to the noises inside, making smoke-rings that Zeah and Bangshar tried to throw stones through. It was a moment of peace and contentment near the day's battleground, and for a moment Pippin imagined he was older, and his son was the one resting his head on Pippin's belly, and they were out with Diamond's leave on a grand adventure of their own.

_Someday_, he thought. _When I get back._

He woke shortly before dawn after a deep and dreamless sleep. He rose and checked the others: they were already awake. He had breakfast of meat and grain and water and some dried melon slices, and then went to get Swallow ready.

"Today you'll get to run, my girl," he told her. "Run as fast as you want."

He saw Asouk speaking with Dyomu and other hunt-leaders and went to them.

"Asouk," he said, "if I don't happen to see you again …"

Asouk wouldn't hear of it. "You will," he said.

Pippin nodded. Looking up at the man, with whom he'd been through so much, his companion over thousands of miles, he threw himself at his waist and hugged him again, till he felt Asouk's hand warmly touch his hair.

Then it was time. Bangshar mounted his yellow horse. Maglor sat upon his blue steed, his shining face shadowed by his hood. Zeah came forth leading Swallow. Pippin smiled at her. She smiled back, and mounted, and then held out her hand to him.

He refused it and with a nimble jump leapt onto the saddle in front of her. He took the reins she held.

With a glance at Asouk, and at Hoz, he took a deep breath and nodded.

"Godspeed," Hoz said.

Pippin nodded again, and then cracked Swallow's reins.

The black filly whinnied and wheeled and cantered into a gallop. Bangshar's and Maglor's horses followed behind. Their horses were fleet, but not like Swallow, and before they vanished into the distance she had left them behind.

"So," said Asouk to Hoz, with their lieutenants around them. "Now we begin."

Hoz nodded. "Now."

* * *

The Plains army was four day's march from Nekhet. They had to make it in three to the Gates of the Desert, the canyon whose road was in ancient times the only road into Nekhet. There the cliff walls that guarded Nekhet were interrupted by the ravine of a sometime rain-bred river. Being of old a well-known vulnerability of the city's natural defenses, it was guarded by the First and Second Regiments, housed in two forts on either side of the dry riverbed.

Men protested at having to walk briskly through the hot desert, but Asouk overruled them. "The sun will be darkened in three days, on the rising of the new moon," he said. "We must attack before then."

The Medzhai helped. Hoz and his horsemen remained with Asouk, guiding them on the swiftest way through the desert. Without their knowledge, the march to Nekhet would have proven more lethal than any battle. Men grew faint in the heat, or sick. The _mumakil_ needed sustenance. Everyone needed water. The Medzhai scouted hidden wells and oases, on horse, on foot, and with their beloved falcons. When they stopped, in the heat of the noon or at night, the Medzhai walked amongst the Bani, training them in warfare. The hunters and herders formed ranks and became an army in more than name and number.

Three days the army crossed the barren desert above the Valley. At first they saw nothing; none of the denizens of the Valley would go up to the desert on anything but dire need, and the army felt secure in being unmolested. But on the second day they began to pass small fortifications and make-shift camps, built sometime during the past years of Sehty's rule, left abandoned, from which they gleaned that their approach was expected. Still they pressed on, past hills of red stone that throbbed in the heat, through stretches of gravel that scorched the touch, past stands of dead palms ridden with termites also long perished. They jogged, to a man, or hitched rides on their animals. The _mumakil_ were now inured to the heat, and were almost nonchalant as they flapped their sail-like ears to cool their blood.

Hoz rode up to Asouk's _mumak_ and climbed up from horseback. "They will have passed the rest of the riders by now," he said without preamble.

Asouk nodded. "How long do you think will it take them to take the north course?"

"Another day, perhaps a little more," said Hoz. "The Easterling's horse is a good one. The Elf's is a bit faster. Miraz … ah, I will regret it when she leaves with Pippin! If she could stay long enough to foal with one of my stallions …"

"Ask him afterward," Asouk advised.

Hoz nodded. "Yes, perhaps. Perhaps."

"You are anxious?"

"Somewhat, my friend. This is my first campaign."

"You are gifted. We shall do what we came to do, or die trying."

"Indeed. We are all in Er's hands."

The sun set on the second day. That night, they hurried, openly running, and Hoz sent runners with Asouk's best trackers ahead, to scout what awaited them at the Canyon. The night was thick with stars. There was no moon.

Hoz sent Serak with a message. The falcon returned, and Hoz bid Asouk farewell. "Now is the time for hope," he said. "By now he has to have informed the rest of my people to begin to ride. I will take my horsemen into the dunes and await for your signal."

Asouk nodded. They clasped arms, then parted.

* * *

Early on the march of the third day the Stairway first became visible, and many of the Bani were afraid. What manner of enemy did they face, who could raise a mountain such as that?

Asouk addressed them. "My people," he said. "We do not face gods, and though we may face monsters, they are monsters in man's disguise. Do not be afraid of the power that raised that hill. We are that power. The hands of our brothers and sisters, our fathers and mothers, our children, raised that mountain, though they did not wish to; they were taken from our plains and pastures to this dry and desert place, to labor in fear and suffering. And even then, they were mighty enough to do that! Do not look on the Stairway of Nekhet in fear. It is not a testimony to the might of the Blue Demon. It is the work of the People of the Plains!"

In hours they came upon the edge of the Valley and the Canyon. Asouk girded himself with Nibo's sash. He took up a great spear, and painted his face. Then he called on Dyomu to raise the call.

"We march now," he thundered. "Let Nekhet know we have come for justice!"

The old hunter, father of Asouk's wife, smiled, and raised a horn to his lips.

The _mumakil_ responded in trumpeting. Their blasts echoed through the desert and down into the Valley. Pebbles skittered down the canyon-sides. The lowest notes of the oliphaunts surged through the bedrock from their starting-point to the very loam of the valley, and made ripples in still water.

The citizens of Nekhet stayed in their homes, frightened of the invaders, and of their own army. The Temple Guards were tasked with keeping order in the city, and had presumed control over the other regiments as well, being empowered to do whatever necessary to enforce Sehty's rule.

So the army of Asouk came to the entrance to the Gates of the Desert, and Asouk on his oliphaunts led them into the ancient streambed that was the gateway of Nekhet to the outer world. Barely eight hundred men and four _mumakil_ marched into the canyon, clutching their round oxhide shields and their long spears, and the gifts the Erites had left them, before the riders vanished.

Asouk began to sing in a low, powerful voice, and his people followed him. Their chanting accompanied the trumpets of the _mumakil_ as they advanced closer to the outskirts of Nekhet and the two forts of the First and Second Regiments, the City Guards and the Border Guards.

They met no resistance until they were but half a mile from the two forts, and the outskirts of the old city were clearly visible. It was now bright morning, and the first quivers of heat began to show from the rocks of the cliffs and the river in the distance. The sight of the mighty river and its green banks moved many of the Plainsmen to thoughts of home, and yearning, but they sang on, knowing why they had come, remembering slain comrades or stolen loved ones. Asouk sang with them, and looked at the height of the sun, and the sky around it, waiting. He also looked north, towards the Stairway, now hidden from view by the canyon wall, wondering.

"Look!" cried his _mumak_-driver. A lone charioteer came down the canyon floor.

"A parley," Asouk said, rolling his eyes and stepping onto the edge of the war-platform. The oliphaunt reached its trunk up and Asouk stepped onto its tip, wrapping his hand around the rope kept there for this purpose.

He reached the ground as the charioteer, in blue linen and bronze armor, came to a stop. It was Khartamun, captain of the Temple Guards.

"Are you the man I should speak to?" he asked Asouk in Haradi.

Asouk nodded. "I am. I have come from the south to ask the Sorcerer to free my people whom he has enslaved."

"Your people are free to go," said Khartamun. "They stay of their own accord, for they find the Valley superior to the life of the barbarians."

"Barbarian we may be," said Asouk, "but at least we do not enslave a man simply because of the color of his skin."

Khartamun scowled. "I am the captain of the Temple Guard," he said. "One of five in this city, each larger than your entire force. Even with your behemoths you cannot hope to prevail."

"You do not know us, captain of the Temple," Asouk said coolly.

Khartamun sneered. "Neither do you know the power of Sehty and the might of the god Seht. Begone, or face their power."

Asouk stepped forward and struck the ground with his spear. "I do not know this god," he said, "and I do not fear his power, nor that of your lord Sehty. Let him come." And he spat on the ground.

Khartamun glared. "You waste your water," he growled. "So be it!" He noisily turned his chariot and rode back to the city.

* * *

2.

* * *

The sky darkened. Asouk, his hand on his knife-handle, gazed upward as if knowing it would happen. A wind rose up and grew harsh.

"The wizard," he muttered.

Asouk strode to the _mumak_. Back atop the beast he said, "Prepare for battle!"

Two of the oliphaunts advanced forward, carrying bristling spearmen. Other spearmen formed ranks of fifty, two ranks across, behind them. The mass of fighters surrounded the remaining two animals as if they were forts, which indeed they were. A hundred scaled the sloping sides of the canyon to cover the floor with spear-casts and thrown missiles.

Asouk looked across his hunters—no, his warriors, now—to his father-in-law. Dyomu saw him and bowed deeply.

Thunder crashed around them, and the dark cloud that had overwhelmed the sky sprouted trees of lightning, striking the lips of the canyon walls. Rocks tumbled from their anchors down toward the army. Men broke ranks and dodged the boulders. An oliphaunt was struck by a boulder the size of a cow, and gave a snuffle of annoyance, took it into its trunk, and hurled it back where it came. Seeing it made Asouk smile.

More lightning came down, racing from the belly of the cloud of darkness, racking the air with thunder. But they kept falling against the canyon walls, or against rocks or boulders; and Asouk began to laugh.

"They call us barbarians," he said to those around him, "but see, the lightning cannot find us amidst all this rock!"

Then he remembered his knife, and his smile turned grim. He took it, and held it up, and it seemed the lightning, or the mind behind it, felt the appearance of plain steel.

"Come for it, blue demon!" he shouted, and threw it as far as he could up toward the cloud.

Twenty bolts and more, blue and searing bright, erupted from all corners of the cloud, and struck the two-foot long metal knife in a tremendous explosion of thunder, lighting the whole canyon. Asouk called out for those to watch its fall and flee from it, and his men heeded his orders, their eyes fixed in wonder and fear at the falling weapon, now white-hot, trailing blue lightning behind it. It fell through the air towards the ground of the hot, dry earth, and the earth responded: before it even struck, the ground itself leapt up with fire, white lightning twice as strong as the blue, arcing up from the soil, through the knife, and up the open trails of power into the cloud, causing a thunder-crash to drown out all others. And it seemed to Asouk he heard a growl of rage from the cloud.

It began to rain dust. Dust and sand and pebbles. The black cloud was giving forth its next plague: the desert storm.

The wind rose to a bloodthirsty howl. Asouk shouted, "The cloths!" And from his sash he drew forth the gift left by the Medzhai for every member of the Plains army: the black fabric of the Erites that resisted flying sand.

The men reached for their scarves and flung them around their heads and bodies and over their faces as the sand began to fly. Men tied fabric around the trunks of the oliphaunts and over their eyes. From the war-towers, Erite tent fabric was unfurled like the sails of the _Sword_, down to the toes of the beasts, and those who needed to ran into the giant tents thus created, holding them down by the very boulders flung down by the lightning. The storm raged, and grew louder, hurling all the fury magic could muster against them; but though they suffered, shaking with terror and apprehension, with sand in their mouths and their nostrils and beneath their eyelids, none gave out, none were slain by the wind, and the oliphaunt Asouk rode even trumpeted.

The wind slackened, baffled by an unseen hand. Asouk shook the sand from his head-covering and gazed out into the shadowy landscape beneath the black cloud. He knew why the storm was quieting: the chariots were coming.

"Chariots!" he shouted, and raised his horn. Dyomu raised his as well, as did the other commanders; the men streamed out from beneath their giant "tents"; and then Dyomu's mount and the other oliphaunt in the lead charged forth.

The First Regiment had one hundred twenty chariots, and all these were sent down the narrow canyon floor toward the small invading force. The oldest and once the best-trained of Nekhet's forces, they considered themselves hardened soldiers dedicated to battle. But none of them, nor their horses, had ever faced two _mumakil_ of Far Harad galloping at them.

Hoz, in sharing his plan to Asouk, had known that the floor of the canyon was narrow. Two oliphaunts could easily cover the breadth of the floor with shakes of their heads. Chariots would have to come in a column right at them.

"And break," Asouk had agreed with a smile, which the young commander shared.

They broke now. Swiping left, swiping right, rearing back and stomping, the oliphaunts decimated the chariots of the City Guards. Spears from the war-platforms struck horse and charioteer, and those on foot who followed the animals engaged the rest.

"Back!" Dyomu ordered, and the _mumakil_ retreated with surprising speed, going back over the crushed and broken first wave to their old positions. So Hoz had shown Asouk a new way to use the oliphaunts, as the Haradrim used them: as walking fortresses. With the four of them blocking the Canyon, they controlled the field of battle.

The First and Second Regiments did not seem to understand that; or if they did, they were too wedded to their long-cherished tactics in warfare, relying on Nekhet's great weapon, her mighty chariots, to overwhelm any enemy with speed and strength. They sent the Second Regiment's chariots out now, two hundred and thirty, in a glittering river of blue and gold.

Again the lead oliphaunts charged, meeting the arrows of the charioteers; but none seemed to understand how to take down a _mumak_ by shooting at its eyes and its driver. Again chariots fell into ruin, crashed, cracked, broken, torn, flung, crumpled, devastated. But there were more than twice as many now, and some got through. Now the spear-casters on the cliffs did their part, sending shafts down upon the chariots that had broken through, and evading if they could the answering bows. Asouk saw it was time for him to move.

"_Mo gatlamo!_" he cried, and blew a horn call, and his oliphaunt charged the Nekheti forces that had broken through the first line of defense. His forces on foot followed. As he did so, the defenders of Nekhet came forth in force, fifteen hundred soldiers on foot, with their curved swords and their stiff bronze shields.

As the chariots passed and were finally overwhelmed, the two armies came together in a thousand instances of single combat. Knives and clubs fought against swords and daggers, but now the Bani could fight back, armed with the knowledge given to them by the Medzhai. Still, the Nekheti had more than numbers on their sides. They fought with kicks and leaps, their scythelike swords swinging in the air like whirlwinds; their arts of combat were like a dance and an assault at once. Above them the four oliphaunts moved, their eyes again blanketed with the Erite cloth that caught arrows err they struck flesh; acting now more as the fortresses they were than as living weapons.

The wind rose again, and thunder and lightning returned; and now the field, littered with the bronze and gold of Nekheti forces, were more tempting targets. "He strikes his own people!" Dyomu shouted, as lightning bolts razed indiscriminately Plainsman and Nekheti alike.

Asouk saw it. It was time. He took from among his necklaces a small whistle made from the bone of a desert fox. He shook his head, wondering how it could be heard through this din, but lifted it to his lips and blew anyway.

The battle raged on, and the greater numbers and skill of the Nekheti were driving the Bani back to their oliphaunts. The spearmen on the cliffs had run out of spears and were now casting rocks and causing avalanches; they were being slain by skilled archers of the Second Regiment, the Border Guards who had long fought with the wild men of the badlands to the north.

"Asouk!" cried a man, pointing up.

Asouk looked up into the storm-wracked and lightning-strewn sky. Serak it was, calling in the darkness, and as before, the Medzhai rode behind him.

But more than the three hundred who had ridden with them. Hoz had rallied the force hidden in the desert, a full third of his army. A thousand horsemen rushed into the Canyon, galloping into the stunned Nekheti and coursing past the Bani and their _mumakil_, like a gale from the deep sands; but that was only one part of Hoz's plan.

* * *

He had sketched it out as they ate together the afternoon of the first battle with Asouk, Zeah, Pippin, Maglor and Bangshar, and Dyomu and other lieutenants.

"I have left behind the bulk of my forces in a staging ground a day's ride from Nekhet," Hoz explained. "I also have seven hundred other riders with which I shall join soon before you come to the Gates of the Desert."

He gave Asouk the whistle. "When you have drawn out the strength of the City and Border Guards into the canyon, blow on this. Serak will hear it, and the thousand riders of whom these three hundred have come, will go to your aid, and engage your foes within the canyon walls. If all goes well, we shall neutralize the two outer regiments of the City of the Hawk."

He turned to Pippin. "When you ride north, you shall find the rest of the forces. As soon as you come upon them, give them my orders to proceed with all haste to Nekhet, and complete the mission. You should do this not later than two days from now, to ensure they are near when Asouk blows the whistle."

"They will not hear this whistle," Asouk protested.

"Serak will," Hoz said. "And he will find them and let them know it is time."

* * *

Serak cried out and flew north, over the canyon and through the clouds, dodging lightning strikes. The people of Nekhet, huddled in their houses, heard the falcon's cry, and in wonder they murmured the name that had been forbidden since the ascendancy of Seht.

"_Harekht_," they said among themselves: Harekht, the child of heaven, with his right eye the sun and his left the moon; Harekht, the Hawk of Heaven, has come.

Out of the west Serak called out, striking fear into the hearts of the Temple Guards, who had sworn their allegiance to Seht, and who had been most responsible for defacing every image of the Hawk from the walls and monuments of the Valley. "Harekht," they whispered among themselves, even though their commanders castigated them. Khartamun heard the cry of the falcon, and himself whispered "Harekht," and quaked.

In the temple of Seht, Alatar looked up, perceiving the cry. And for a moment, he too trembled, thinking for a moment he had heard an Eagle instead…. Then his eyes darkened, and fury mastered him, and he smote the ground with his staff. At his side, Osyr laughed soundlessly, and said, _The hawk of heaven has come to deliver us._

"You are coming with me!" Alatar growled, and with his staff, summoned his Servants within the Stairway to life. A faint line of blue light struck the Stairway and entered through its East Door.

* * *

It was time. The cry of the falcon was their signal. They had ridden for a day from their forward position, alerted by the halfling and his companions. They had paused behind the greatest of the dunes next to the Valley cliffs, seated, resting, but ready, waiting for their time. They knew their task. Erites, wanderers of the desert, they loved their horses like family, and rode them through sandstorms, through valleys, up hills and down mountainsides. They had been summoned by the prophet and called to holy war. They saw the black cloud spread from the fallen city and cursed the sorcery. When they heard the falcon's cry, they knew it was time.

So they rode. Two thousand riders, on two thousand horses, with two thousand curved swords of gleaming steel, flooded out of the desert into the clouded world. They were shouting as they rode: _Eria ekkad, Eria ekkad, ayalon Erayyimi ekkanach nahash_; The One is Lord, the One is Lord, proclaim O Erites your Lord the Secret Fire.

They rode out of the west to Nekhet, their mission clear, given to them by order of their commander, given by Pippin acting as herald. The battle was in the canyon to the south. They rode east, straight for the cliffs that Nekhet had always trusted to keep invaders out.

But a road had been carved in the cliff, where the cliff was not so steep; to bring slaves up from the Valley to build the Stairway; a road that had not been there before, built by order of Sehty; a road that breached the natural defenses of the City of the Hawk. Zeah and Pippin had used that road.

And now down that carved and gentled cliffside came the cavalry of the Erites, to the slave quarters and the city itself.

* * *

_Harekht_, _Harekht_, called out the people of Nekhet. Heedless of cries of the people of the Valley, Serak circled over the Stairway now, and swept down low, hearing the whistle. There were three horses galloping over the sand, coming from the north, towards the Stairway complex. The horse in the lead stopped, rearing and kicking, whinnying mightily; the falcon gave an answering cry, swooping low, talons outstretched …

… and alighted on Pippin's upraised arm.

"You've learned well," Zeah complimented.

Pippin shrugged jauntily, tucking his own foxbone whistle in his belt. "I try." He looked south, towards the cloud of dust raised by the galloping cavalry. "There they go?"

Zeah nodded as Maglor and Bangshar came up behind them. "There they go," she agreed.

"Right," Pippin said. He turned deliberately to the Stairway, its five steep levels rearing up before them, only a mile away. "Now for our part. Come on!"

He spurred Swallow, and Maglor and Bangshar followed, and they rode to the Stairway.

* * *

3.

* * *

Asouk stood amidst the scourge of battle and saw Hoz riding to him.

"How do you fare?" Hoz asked.

"We survive!" Asouk answered. "Your strategems have worked!"

"So far," said Hoz. "Now let us hope that our allies within the City choose to join us now!"

War came to the streets of Nekhet. In the slave quarter the Erites flung open barred doors and hacked open chains, and hundreds of slaves rushed out of their captivity. At first frightened, they were given weapons, and steeds, and many of the men chose to ride with the Erites or run into the streets, while the rest led the women and children up the hillside and into the desert.

The Third and Fourth Regiments, the King's Guard and the Temple Guard, were faced now with a situation they had never contemplated: a battle within the old city itself. Their chariots were all but useless in the narrow, winding streets.

The King's Guard went to meet the enemy nevertheless, and fought with them through the Merchants' Quarter and the Craftsmen's Quarter. At the same time, the Bani and Hoz's thousand riders advanced over the vanquished outer defenses and were coming into the old city from the south. The Kings' Guard urged the Temple Guard to join the fight, but the Temple Guard instead burned the barges and fortified the roads and barge-landings to the new city. Frustrated, the commander of the Kings' Guard demanded to know where the Fifth Regiment, the Queen's Guard, was.

"With the Queen," was the reply.

"And where is she?"

Khartamun ran through the Temple courtyard, shouting orders on the border of panic. "Set up the barricades! Set fire to the wood! Take women and children and use them as hostages! Set fire to the animals and send them burning in the streets! Fill the river with poison!"

He heard commotion, the sound of chariot wheels—and then an arrow pierced him in the side. He screamed.

Down the lane from the Royal Houses came the chariots of the Queen's Guards. Mery was holding a bow and glaring at Khartamun; but it was Yses herself who led them, driving a chariot of her own, wearing the high-crowned war-helmet of a Phar.

"Throw down your weapons!" she shouted to the Temple Guardsmen. "Throw down your weapons! Do not destroy the city of our forefathers!"

Many who heard her, remembering the splendor of the Phar and his Queen in days past, remembering the ruin of the civil war and the rise of Osyr and Yses as uniters and peacemakers, did as Yses bid, and went to her side, or refused to fight. But a great many, given to Seht body and soul, stood against her, and the Queen's Guards battled them. Blood ran red on the Temple grounds, not for the first time, but never again in such quantity.

The wounded Khartamun struggled into the Temple and scrambled to the holy sanctuary. He cried out, "My lord! My lord! Save me!"

But Alatar was not there, and neither was the idol of Seht.

Khartamun wailed in black despair, as the doors were thrown open and Mery entered.

"You," said Mery.

Khartamun pleaded, "Mercy! Mercy, I beg you! I beg you!" He crawled to Mery's feet and kissed them.

Mery's lip curled with disgust. He tore off Khartamun's helmet and headdress, baring his head and neck, and slew Khartamun in mid-grovel.

"Find the rest," Mery ordered. "Slay all who refuse to acknowledge the Queen. Then burn this place till its mud crumbles to dust."

He emerged from the burning Temple to find Yses staring at the fighting in the west bank.

"I must go there," she said.

Mery nodded, taking her hand. "Then I shall find a way."

Yses gazed at her captain for a moment. "Do so, and also accompany me," she said.

The King's Guards rallied and fell together, forging a counterrattack upon the Erites and the rebelling slaves. With valor and desperation they forced themselves against their enemies at great cost. They had begun to break through the line when they heard the coming of a multitude.

Upon a swiftly-rowed barge came Yses, Queen of the Valley, and her captain Mery, upon her chariot, to the west bank. The Queen's Guard followed, and as she rode, the people of Nekhet left their homes and followed her

"People of Nekhet!" Yses cried as Mery drove through the streets. "Fight not for Sehty! You have lived in fear and shame for too long under his tyranny! Rise up! Heed me, your Queen! Remember our ways in the time before Seht, and rise up to freedom!"

Many heard her, and many heeded her. But many did not, or could not think to do so. Nekhet's streets rang with strife.

* * *

Riding up from the Canyon in the city, Asouk looked into the sky.

"The storm is strengthening again," he said.

Hoz swore in what Asouk recognized as Orcish. Asouk looked at him in amused surprise.

Hoz shrugged. "Pippin," he said, as if in explanation.

Asouk nodded, understanding.

"The sorcerer is putting forth his power," Hoz said. He looked north, where now the beacon of the hidden Noonstar was visible, springing from the top of the Stairway until it was lost in the cloud.

* * *

There were twenty guards outside the Stairway, and none inside—they were not allowed, and none wanted to enter in any case. They saw the cloud of the ride of the Erite forces, and saw the great black storm and the lightning of their lord, and were terrified. Temple Guardsmen, they wondered if they should go to the aid of their comrades, but they chose instead to stay at their posts, far from the fighting. So when they saw the intruders coming at them, they were nervous, and assembled all together before the west door.

It was the wrong choice. The horses did not stop; instead their riders produced blades. Eleven guards fell in the first pass.

From their steeds leapt Pippin, and Zeah, Maglor and Bangshar, and they turned together to face the guards. Bangshar had drawn his twin blades. Maglor's sword slid out of its sheath with the cold gleam of Valinorean steel, ancient by far and gleaming with its own light. Zeah's sword glittered in her hand. Pippin held Trollsbane.

"You should go," Pippin said in Nekheti to the remaining nine guards.

The guards chose to attack.

Pippin slew one. Zeah took the head of another. Bangshar dispatched two, one with each knife. Maglor ran one through and at the same time reached out with his hand, caught another by the face, and crushed his skull.

"Ugh," said Pippin.

Maglor turned and saw a guard coming towards Pippin. "Pippin," he warned sharply.

Pippin ducked and rolled and kicked the man who came at him, and spun around and stabbed him with Trollsbane. Another struck out at him, but Bangshar with a flying leap struck the man in the jaw with his heel and then stabbed him with a blade hidden in his sleeve.

One last went to run away, screaming. He fell shot by Maglor's bow.

"That's that then," said Pippin, turning to face the door. It was engraved with the picture-writing of the Nekheti, and had no visible means of entry.

"I have the feeling we've got us a magic door here," he said. "Zeah, can you …"

Zeah stepped up. "_'This Door the gate to the Darkness that comes in the fall of the Sun. May Seht rule all'_," she read. "I cannot see any other message."

"Magic," said Maglor, "or machinery?"

"Machinery …" echoed Pippin. He stepped up to the engraving and began to run his fingers over the pictures. He paused. "Zeah! Is this one 'door'?"

"Yes," said Zeah.

"Got it," Pippin said, and pushed.

With a rumble the door rose. Inside was darkness.

"I'll get the torches," Bangshar said.

"Hurry," said Maglor. "We do not have much time." He looked into the cloud, which seemed to be dissipating.

"The eclipse?" Pippin asked.

Maglor nodded. "In this very hour."

Bangshar returned with lit torches. He took one, and Zeah took one. Maglor drew his sword, which glowed.

Pippin held nothing. He steadied himself, puffing up his chest, and said, "Follow me." They crossed the threshold and entered the dark.

* * *

The wind died. The lightning dimmed, and the thunder failed. In the city, Hoz looked up into the sky, which was beginning to clear—and yet was dim, as if it was late in the afternoon, and growing later.

"They have entered the Stairway," Asouk said.

Hoz agreed. "The hour has arrived," he said.

In the heavens above, the limb of the Moon touched the edge of the Sun. Tilion had caught Arien and was pulling her into an embrace.


	15. The Stairway

_Part XV_

**The Stairway**

* * *

Pippin stepped into a hall whose ceiling was dimly visible, inscribed with picture-writing and bearing the machinery for the opening of the door. Bangshar investigated the mechanism and broke it, leaving the door open. "I think a way out will be less dangerous than letting other people in," he said.

"The danger is already inside," said Maglor. Pippin looked at him questioningly. "I sense the wizard," he confirmed.

Zeah walked ahead. She held out her torch. A few feet from the entrance the floor fell into a chamber. "Be careful," she said to her companions.

Pippin came up next to her. "What is it?" He could barely see the bottom.

"A drainage pit," Zeah guessed.

"And a convenient trap," Bangshar added. He looked around. "No way across."

Pippin pointed at the ceiling, where the ropes for the door mechanism were suspended by a sort of pulley. He called Bangshar's attention to it.

Bangshar had brought a small pack. Glancing up he looked at Pippin, nodded, and produced a length of rope of his own.

"How will we attach it?" Zeah wanted to know.

"So," said Maglor, taking an arrow from his quiver. Bangshar unspliced the end of the rope and tied a cord to the end of the arrow. Maglor drew, took aim, and let fly.

The arrow sped up through the darkness and neatly threaded the bronze pulley with the cord. Bangshar took the free end and, with the practice of a crewman of a sailing ship, coiled the rope several times around the pulley body with strong flicks of his wrists.

He tugged hard and nodded to the others.

"I'll go first," said Pippin.

He took a few steps back and leapt at a run, landing on the other side with a small tumble.

Zeah shouted, "Pippin!"

"I'm all right," he said, picking himself up. "Not quite as graceful as an Elf, I'm afraid." He gestured. "Come on."

Zeah followed, and then Bangshar. The pulley gave a little at the unfamiliar weight being put to it, loosening from its fastening in the mud blocks of the wall. Some plaster crumbled down into the pit.

"Something is moving down there," Bangshar muttered.

Maglor went last. Even as he jumped, the pulley loosened, and Pippin feared it would fall. But Maglor swung gracefully through the air and landed firmly on the far side even before the mechanism loosened completely from the ceiling and fell into the black pit.

They heard a rumbling and a sliding, moving sound in the shadows. Pippin took Zeah's torch and tried to peer over, but Maglor stopped him.

"It is already awake," he said.

"What is?" Pippin wanted to know.

The grinding, moving sound came again, grew loud, and then dwindled, as if whatever was causing it had moved away. "We must go on," said Maglor.

"Agreed," said Pippin, and led the way.

They found their way through a short hall to a wider descending passage. Maglor stopped them. "Wait," he said. "I am certain there is a trap here."

He said to Zeah, "Girl. Throw your veil through the air onto the floor."

Zeah bristled at the Elf's condescension, but unwound her head-scarf and veil and flung it down the corridor.

Darts flew from the walls and embedded themselves in the fabric ere it hit the floor.

The four of them said nothing for a long moment. "Well then!" said Pippin, the first one to speak.

They groped their way down the sloping passage with its tapering ceiling and massive stone blocks, Zeah and Maglor tripping the triggers of the hidden defenses. One was almost too quick for them. Zeah hurled fabric forward, and barely did Maglor say, "Down!" when bronze spikes sprang from holes in the wall, sending each of them jumping in one of four directions.

Pippin leaned on one of the spikes that had just missed running him through. "I'm beginning to truly dislike this place," he said.

They extricated themselves from the only to find the floor studded with more small holes.

"You were saying?" Bangshar said to Pippin.

"We will have to be quick," Maglor said, and went first, gliding over the paving-stones. Zeah followed, and also managed to cross without activating the spikes. They waited on a landing at the bottom of the hall.

Bangshar motioned to Pippin. "You first," he said. "You're more important."

Pippin hesitated, and then went.

His first step was too heavy, and randomly the spikes began to rise up from the floor. "No time!" Pippin cried. "Come on, Bangshar!" And he and the Easterling raced through the trap, as the spikes rose with building speed and frequency. "Ow!" Pippin cried, as his right foot landed on the tip of a rising spike.

"Pippin!" Zeah cried.

Gritting his teeth, Pippin struggled on, but Bangshar coming behind him grabbed him and carried him the rest of the way to the landing.

Maglor examined the wound. "It is only a cut, not too deep," he said. "Can you walk on it?"

"I'll have to, won't I?" Pippin replied testily. "More importantly, I can climb on it, and that's why I'm here." Bangshar bandaged Pippin's foot and Pippin got up. "I'm fine," he said, but he couldn't help wincing as he put weight on his injury. "What's next?"

They emerged from the landing into an antechamber lined with life-sized statues of lions with men's heads. "Sphinxes," Zeah said.

"We are near the chamber of the Star," Maglor said.

"What traps await here?" Bangshar asked, glancing around.

Pippin heard the sound of cracking stone.

"Watch out!" he warned.

The sphinxes came to life. Stone eyes flew open, glaring with unnatural red light, as the statues rose up, tails flicking, and leapt off their pedestals.

"Swords!" Maglor shouted.

"Against stone?" Zeah muttered.

"This will be interesting," Bangshar commented, both blades drawn.

The moving statues attacked. They staggered forward, the mouths on their human faces filled with sharp stone teeth. Wind came from their jaws as they roared, staggeringly strong. Pippin scampered among them, hacking at them with his sword, but the blade made only small gouges in the stone.

He slipped on sand, losing his footing. A sphinx leapt upon him, just missing crushing him with its forepaws when Pippin curled into a ball. The sphinx gave a wind-filled growl, giving Pippin a good view of its rows of stone teeth, but then one of Bangshar's daggers struck one of the statue's glowing red eyes, which broke and seeped what looked like blood. The sphinx yowled.

Seeing that, Pippin shouted, "The eyes! Take out the eyes!" and struck out with the pommel of his sword, crushing the red lights. The thing roared and then fell silent, hardening.

The others did the same, and they won their way to the exit, still being pursued. More statues were coming to life: creatures with human bodies and animals' heads, the idols of the gods of the Valley, lions and crocodiles and cats and cattle and birds.

"Hurry!" Pippin urged Zeah, who with Maglor were trying to open the next doorway.

"Do not interrupt me! I am doing my best!"

"I know that; I'm suggesting you do your best faster!"

"I have it!" Zeah finally said, and she pushed against a sequence of symbols upon the doorpost, activating hidden levers and wheels. It began to rise.

Maglor beckoned curtly to Pippin. "Pippin! Come!"

"Let's go," Pippin said to Bangshar, but the Easterling, at the rear facing the coming monsters of stone, shook his head. "You go," he said. "I will take care of these devils, and see that they don't follow you."

Zeah's eyes widened in alarm. "No," she said. But Maglor nodded and pushed her through and now reached out for Pippin.

Pippin said to Bangshar, "You can't face them alone."

"I think I can," said Bangshar, and flung his cloak back to reveal several small pouches with wicks at his belt. "Remember the ambush at sea?"

Pippin understood. "Blasting fire?"

Bangshar nodded. "Don't worry about me," he said. "Go on!"

"Enough argument!" snapped Maglor, and took Pippin by the shoulder. "Come, Pippin!"

"Don't do anything stupid!" Pippin said to Bangshar, as they passed through the door.

They found themselves facing another doorway, filled with shining light, across a sputtering pool of black oil. A narrow footbridge of stone ran across it, only inches from the surface. The heat from the oil made Pippin's face sweat, and at first he couldn't face it for the pain it caused his eyes.

"Is it pitch?" he asked.

"Naft," Zeah said.

"It does not matter," said Maglor, pointing. "There is the bridge, and there is the light of the Silmaril!" Pippin noticed the Elf's finger quivered.

Zeah shook her head. "This cannot be so simple!" she argued.

Pippin stared into the black liquid, drawn by a shift in the slick shiny surface. He heard a sound: the same grinding, crawling sound, like something massive and harsh scraping on stone. The black pool moved. He started to say: "Something's in there …"

With a burst of heat and black ooze, a scaly head, more than five feet long, sprang from the pool, followed by a great stretch of neck that thickened into a limbless, twining body. Black eyes that devoured all light focused on them, and a tongue like a two-headed worm slid out from between the hard armored lips. Then two jaws opened, revealing a black mouth filled with blue teeth like needles, and two immense fangs dripping with grey poison. Coil after coil followed the head and the neck, rearing up to the ceiling of the chamber, as Pippin, Zeah and even Maglor stared at it in horror.

"_Akek_?" breathed Zeah. "The Serpent of Darkness?"

"A creature of Morgoth," cursed Maglor.

"A snake," Pippin complained. "Why did it _have_ to be a snake?"

None of them moved, rooted to where they stood by the giant snake's cold glare. Then abruptly Maglor lowered his sword and began to approach it.

"What are you doing?" Zeah cried.

"Seizing a chance for you and Pippin," he replied.

"You should go with Pippin!" protested Zeah. "I shall fight this creature!"

"You are mortal and have not my power!" rebuked Maglor. He glared at Pippin. "You know I am right," he said. "Go! I shall follow you!"

Then came the sound of an explosion, and dust from the way they had come. Pippin heard it and said: "Bangshar." Zeah's face paled.

Pippin grabbed Zeah's hand. "Come on," he said, and together they began to cross the bridge.

Maglor lifted up his voice and began to sing.

Pippin and Zeah began gingerly, keeping their eyes on Akek, whose gaze was fixed on them. Zeah's hand was cold in Pippin's, but Pippin was perspiring profusely, and not just from the heat of the oil. He truly disliked all scaled creatures, snakes especially, and this one was the essential stuff of all his nightmares.

Akek struck out, snapping at them with his jaws. Zeah screamed, but Pippin was the one who lost his balance and nearly fell. But like a light, so bright it could almost be seen, Maglor's voice passed between the giant snake's fangs and Pippin.

Zeah pulled Pippin from the brink. They looked at Maglor. The Elf was singing, putting forth all his power and might, and Akek turned his head to Maglor, almost swaying, even as the black coils of the great serpent reared out of the black ooze and began to encircle the singer.

"Run!" Pippin cried.

Maglor saw them vanish into the light of the Silmaril. He stopped singing. Akek had coiled all around him. The serpent's face was a few feet from his own. He could smell the sour odor of the snake's poisoned jaws.

Maglor drew his sword, shining Valinorean steel.

"I was born beneath the Light of the Two Trees," he boasted. "I fear no darkness!"

Akek seemed to pause, and then struck.

Maglor struck back.

* * *

The light was incredible. Pippin had never seen anything like it. It was as if he had walked upon the decks of _Vingilot_, as if the air were woven from the locks of Galadriel: golden light, silver light, brighter and older and truer than Sun or Moon. It took a moment for his vision to grow accustomed to the splendor, for him to make out the size and scope of the Chamber of the Star, occupying the heart of the Stairway. In the center of the chamber rose the mast of a Númenórean ship, fifty feet high, the mast of the ship Phazan of Westernesse had sailed to this place, now clad in silver. Its sides were smooth but not impossible for him to climb. It was covered in writing, Tengwar script, smoothed by time but still visible. Other symbols unknown to him covered the sides of the chamber, sloping inwards, slabs of stone polished like glass, reflecting and refracting the light of the Silmaril over and over again, and back into the Jewel, which fed on its own light and grew brighter and brighter yet. The air seemed to singe in the light.

"Holy …" Pippin said.

"It is beautiful," Zeah gasped. "Pippin, you—"

A two-pronged spear struck her and hurled her back against the wall, pinning her to the wall through her stomach.

"_Zeah!_" Pippin cried.

The spear quivered, and then took flight again, drawn back whence it came. Zeah slumped against the floor.

Through the cloud of light appeared Alatar, his staff once more in his hand. He glared at Zeah, and then gave a dismissive glance at Pippin and turned away.

* * *

2.

* * *

Rage filled Pippin. Heedlessly he took up his sword and raised it against Alatar, but the wizard saw him. Alatar smiled. He gestured with his staff, and a punch of hard wind slammed Pippin back with a crunch against the wall next to Zeah, knocking him breathless and dizzy. Trollsbane fell from his grip.

Satisfied, Alatar walked a short distance, until he stood before the Noonstar on its pillar. In his blurred sight Pippin made out the crystal orb upon its chalice on a small platform atop the ancient metal mast. He looked at Alatar. The wizard had raised his arms up and begun to chant a spell. Power started to burden the air. Pippin could feel the hair on his forearms tingling and standing on end, along with goosebumps along the rest of his body. There were sparkles in his eyes. He looked up to the opening atop the Stairway, and though perhaps he imagined it, he thought he saw the shadow of the Moon now more than halfway across the disk of the Sun.

He felt another presence, and turned his head to see Osyr hovering over Zeah.

"No!" he cried, but the withered body of the Phar raised a bony finger to desiccated lips. Instead he heard Osyr's thoughts:

_I can help her._

"What?"

_Sehty is feeding the fire of my life to his creations, and using it as the fuel for his machine. Some dark magic. _Osyr's eyes were sad. _But if you can break his spell, I believe I can give that fire to your friend._

"But that will kill you," Pippin said.

_I am dead already. _The Phar gazed at him without fear.

Pippin nodded.

The wizard's eyes were closed, his face lined with exertion, his brow scarred with concentration. Sweat beaded his face and dampened his cheeks. The power he was summoning filled the room, bouncing off the polished rock, reverberating along the lines of light coming from the Silmaril, reflected and refracted and focused back into the Jewel itself, and like a living thing, which in many ways it was, the Silmaril fed on the light and grew brighter still. Outside the world was dimming as the Moon passed over the Sun; the Silmaril was soon to shine unrivaled upon the earth. So intent was he upon the spell he wove that he never noticed the hobbit approaching him from behind.

Pippin stepped on a pebble with his wounded foot. He stumbled.

Alatar stopped his exertions, spinning around. "What—?"

With a cry Pippin lashed out with his sword, and cut the wizard along the thighs.

Immediately Osyr laid his skeletal hands upon Zeah's wounds. The light in the great chamber dimmed except for the Noonstar, while instead, the king and Zeah began to glow. Her wounds began to close.

Alatar staggered back. He stared in horror and amazement at his wounds, and then at the sweat-stained, limping hobbit holding the sword that wounded him.

Furiously he turned on his attacker. "_Fool!_"

Pippin limped forward, and then straightened, inhaled and retorted, "So I've been called—but by a better Wizard than you!"

And before Alatar could raise his staff or mutter a spell, Pippin swept his sword upon him, forcing him back, staggering him, and whether in shock, surprise, or actual weakness in the breaking of the spell, it was all Alatar could do to fend off the swordstrokes falling upon him.

The wizard turned and fled a short way before stopping, his face a mask of anger and real fear. "Who _are_ you?" he cried. "What manner of creature are you that dare lay a finger on one of the Istari, upon a huntsman of Oromë?"

He lashed out with a wind-blast. Pippin threw himself down and let the burst pass over him before getting back to his feet. Another came, and he avoided it again. "If you'd give me … a moment … to properly introduce myself …"

Alatar struck out with lightning.

Pippin ran scrambling, hopping this way and that away from the deadly blue strikes that burst upon the floor as they struck it, until he came behind the shelter of the pillar that held the Noonstar. He leapt back as lightning struck the silver surface, and the Silmaril flashed brightly, taking the power and transmuting it within its holy substance. The Stairway itself shook. Blocks of mud masonry fell at a violent shudder, and when the dust cleared Pippin found himself hidden from the wizard by debris and the pillar itself. Through the hole atop the Stairway, Pippin could see the Sun, or what was left of it—the edge of a ring glaring down upon the world.

Pippin dared to steal a glance in Zeah's direction. Osyr was crumpling like a leaf, but he still held onto Zeah, who was growing visibly stronger with each passing moment. Her eyes were opening.

Pippin seized the moment. "Alatar," he called out. "Alatar, you've got to explain something to me."

_"Who are you and why should I care?"_

"Oh, right, sorry." Pippin peeked around the rocks shielding him. Deepening his voice, he declared, "I'm Peregrin Took of the Fellowship of the Ring, and I don't know exactly what you're up to, but I'm going to put an end to it!"

And he dashed out of cover throwing stones. Alatar flinched as a pebble hit his cheek. Pippin charged with Trollsbane out. Alatar bellowed and engaged him.

Steel struck bronze, separated, and struck again, clanging and crashing and raising sparks. Lighting arced and hobbit dove, wind gusted and sword sliced; and in Zeah's arms, the Phar grew weaker and weaker, as did the chambers of mirrored rock above the hall.

A gust of wind threw Pippin on his back. Instantly Alatar sprang upon him with the bladelike tines of his staff. Pippin swung Trollsbane as a shield.

It caught the wizard under his bronze breastplate. "Aagh!" cried Alatar, deeply wounded. He gestured, and sent Pippin crashing against fallen masonry with a blast of wind. Gripping his wounded side, he staggered back to the pillar of the Noonstar.

"Osyr," he moaned. "Osyr, come to me!"

Dazed Pippin picked himself up off the floor. Trollsbane lay five feet away where he'd dropped it. His foot was in agony, and had he now cracked some ribs? He tried to rise, and managed it, and looked for Alatar and Zeah and Osyr. He saw Alatar leaning on his staff before the pillar, while against the far wall, Osyr had fallen against Zeah, the light around them fading. Was Zeah alright?

Alatar let out a howl of rage. "No! Osyr, you have betrayed me!"

In Zeah's arms, the Phar died.

All around them the light began to fade. The Silmaril shone alone. Whatever sorcery Alatar had used to feed the soul of Osyr into the mechanism of the Stairway, now had no source to feed on; Osyr had expended it upon Zeah.

Pippin's heart leapt. "Give up, Alatar!" he shouted. "We've won!"

Alatar laughed, high-pitched and witless. Pippin thought: _He's truly crazed now_. But when Alatar spoke, his voice was as low and grating as stone.

"'We've won'," Alatar said spitefully. "I have heard that before. I heard that twelve years ago, in my dreams. I was here, in the desert, and I had raised a storm against the marching Haradrim gone to aid Sauron. I had waited in fear and anxiety for word. And then it came like a wind upon the sand: the fall of Sauron. I felt it. I felt his passing and I sang in victory. 'We have won'. And so I awaited the call home. Home, to Valinor … to the woods of my lord Oromë, where I hunted with him for the golden hart of Aman. But no call came! No ship, no Eagle, no word! I waited alone upon the sands and raised up mine eyes to the West and the West heard me not!"

Alatar raised his staff, and it glowed with power: Alatar's own power, his own life and soul. "I will open the Road denied me," he said, his voice rising, his eyes breaking into madness. "I will bring the gods to earth, if I have to shatter the sky and all beneath it!" He clutched his staff as a spear. "I will go home!"

He cast his staff against the pillar, where its two blades bit into the soft silver and the ancient timber, and he cried out words of power. And power spun out from him in a bright swirl into a column that rushed into the staff and up through the pillar to the Silmaril. The crystal globe encasing the jewel shattered; and a beam of light burst up through the hole in the Stairway and pierced the sky.

The heavens peeled apart like a ruined flower, and a storm greater than any mortal storm enveloped the Stairway and all the land around it, the desert and the valley and the city itself, circling around a void in the air. The shaking grew almost untenable; the top levels of the Stairway began to crack, fissure, and then crumble. And the Moon froze in front of the Sun, trapping the Valley in a narrow band of utter darkness.

"Yes!" Alatar said, laughing maniacally. "Behold! _The Straight Road!_"

Pippin dodged falling masonry and brick, knowing now he had to steal the jewel. Alatar spied him, and said calmly: "Now for you, Peregrin Took!"

In the light, a shadow moved.

* * *

3.

* * *

The silver surface of the old mast was smooth, but there were just enough crevices and ridges for a hobbit's fingers and toes to find purchase. Pippin made his way up the Pillar, climbing, crawling, shimmying, as if it were the mast of the _Sword_ and he had to work without the stays. But it was excruciating. His foot hurt and his ribs hurt and his hands were sweaty and—

_Behind you!_

Pippin yelped and let go—and found himself clutching onto the head and ears of the statue of Seht.

The idol's left hand reached up and brushed Pippin, trying to grab him. Pippin let go instead, tumbling down to the ground, landing on his back. Pippin grunted in pain, but struggled to his feet, pulled out his sword, and turned on his assailant, slashing against the black rock of the idol. The statue of Seht swung its mace. It moved simply and brutally, allowing Pippin to evade the swings and blows, but those blows crushed the floor and made craters in the ground. Pippin hacked again at the statue's ankles, and succeeded in creating a fissure, but only small one. He had to find another way, or be killed, or worse, fail.

The Stairway was crumbling. The Straight Road was destroying everything beneath it. A great crack appeared in the south face. Suddenly it broke apart, revealing the tormented landscape outside. Pippin saw men rush up the crumbled brick and stone: Medzhai and Bani and Nekheti.

"Pippin!" It was Zeah. She was sitting up, cradling the remains of Osyr. She pointed. "The eyes!"

Pippin looked up. The statue had red eyes like those of the stone sphinxes. _Destroy the eyes._

He got an idea. He sheathed his sword and ran limping.

The idol lumbered upon the cracked floor littered with brick and fallen stone. It threw down its mace behind Pippin, so near Pippin could feel the shock of its blow on the fur on his ankles. He had to lead it properly. He had to make sure it was close enough to serve. He gauged the distance to the Noonstar and its pillar as he ran, clambering over debris and skipping over rocks, pursued by the dark idol. Then he stumbled, or seemed to, bending down low over the ground.

The statue of Seht reared back to land a killing blow.

Pippin whirled around. With a hobbit's practiced aim he flung two jagged pebbles up at Seht and struck its eyes.

Both enchanted orbs shattered, shards melting into a liquid like blood, breaking the spell that animated the statue's stone. Bereft of its magical life, the statue froze, still in its awkward position. Off-balance, it teetered and fell, limbs and head crushing and shattering right where Pippin had hoped it would: the Pillar.

A cheer rose from the onlookers, startling Pippin and causing him to glance at them. "_Harekht! Harekht!_" Then the ground shook, and Pippin put it from his mind and went to complete his task.

He climbed up the fallen idol of Seht to the midpoint of the Pillar, and proceeded from there, his fingers digging into the indentations of the carvings, his bare arms hugging against the silver surface, the soles of his feet holding fast against the metal. He disregarded the pain. It was only ten feet now; seven; five; three; one—

—and he climbed upon the small platform and gazed upon the naked gem.

Now all around him seemed to still. Pippin knew that the sky was rent above him, that the ground shook and buildings were falling, that below him the Blue Wizard was raging at him; but for the moment none of it mattered. One of the _Silmarilli_ was before him. He was looking at it with his own eyes. He could feel its light strike his skin and pass tingling through his flesh. It was both silver and gold together; it was warm, and came from deep within; it was the light from before all others, the light of Telperion and Laurelin from before the awakening of Men, or hobbits.

_Oh, Bilbo, I wish I could tell you what this looks like,_ he thought. _Me, Pippin, silly little Pippin—I see a Silmaril before me, and Bilbo, it's even better than you said it was!_

He reached out. The light seemed firm to the touch. The Jewel lay in the pieces of its crystal casing. It was large, about half the size of his palm. As his hand neared it, the sweat upon his skin turned to vapor, shimmering in the light. For a moment he wondered; the light was enough to split the sky, yet it only tingled upon his hand? But that was how it was, and he wouldn't stop now.

One last doubt entered his mind: the touch of a Silmaril would burn all mortal flesh and any evil thing. He thought of Maglor's hand. What would happen to him?

_Let's find out._

"Elbereth," he invoked, and then, impulsively, "Eru …." And he took it.

Pippin's body began to glow. First his hand, where he held the Jewel. Then it spread like the roots of a tree, up his arm, across his shoulders, down his trunk to his legs and even the tips of his toes. It filled his face and lit his hair and shone even from between his lips. Pippin did not cry out, did not hunch over in pain, did not do anything but gaze at the jewel in his hand.

Then he looked up, and it seemed to the Nekheti that one eye blazed with the light of the Sun, and the other shone with the light of the Moon.

"Let go of it! Let go of it! Do not hinder me!"

It was Alatar, shrieking madly, spit flying from his lips. His face was gaunt and his whole form withered by the power he was putting forth into the mechanism, the mechanism he could no longer control, whose focus now lay in Pippin's hand. He staggered to a spot beneath the platform, crying:

"It is mine! I will take it to the Valar! They will not deny a Silmaril! Give it to me!"

Pippin appeared on the edge of the platform, holding the Silmaril in his palm.

He gazed down at Alatar.

"Here," he said, and let it go.

In a streak of sparkling light fell the Noonstar of Nekhet, the second of the Three, sister and mate to the Evenstar of Eärendil and the Morningstar of Melkor that Maedhros in despair took to the fiery iron heart of Arda; the Jewel of the Sea. Alatar uttered a strangled noise and rushed forward to catch it. As it fell into his hands, its hallowed substance touched the mortal flesh in which his spirit was housed.

Alatar howled. The Silmaril's light raced up his arms, cutting, fracturing. The awe-full light filled his body, shooting through his tendons and flesh and bones, bursting through his eyes and ears and mouth, shining, shining, until the wizard was like a jewel himself. Then, with a final cry, he vanished in a flash of dust and mist and vapor that rose up into the rent sky and scattered away.

* * *

Pippin hurried down the Pillar as fast as he could. He felt alive, incredibly so, and his mind was whirling. He looked up and saw the rift beginning to close, as the Moon regained motion and began to pass from the Sun.

He got down onto the ground, calling "Zeah! Zeah!" as he ran to where the Noonstar lay. He bent down and once again picked it up, marveling at it. "Zeah," he called again, "you've got to come and look at this!" But it wasn't Zeah who answered.

"Halfling." Maglor's voice was tight and tense. "Give me the gem."

Pippin turned. The Elf stood before him, sword drawn, his clothes rent, hands bare, covered in black slime and gore. His hood was thrown back and his dark hair disheveled and dirty, wild over his eyes, glittering with desperation.

Pippin took a step back. "What do you mean?"

Maglor advanced on him, holding out his scarred hand. "The jewel. The Silmaril. It is mine. It belongs to me."

"Maglor …"

"The jewel is mine. Give it to me," Maglor insisted tautly. "Give it to me or Mandos as my witness I shall slay you and all who keep it from me."

Pippin shook his head. "You don't mean that. I know you don't. You've changed."

The sword quivered as Maglor trembled. "The _oath_ has not changed," he said bitterly. "The oath _cannot_ change!"

Pippin replied, "But people do."

He hesitated, and looked down. The Silmaril shone with its holy light, unstained despite all the harm and wickedness it had to have witnessed in its history. From the ruin of this day, all the long road back to the nethermost dungeon of Angband and its setting in the Iron Crown. Evil simply was not enough to dim its light for long. It lay in Pippin's naked palm, on his skin, and lit him up from the inside.

He nodded. "You're right," he said to Maglor, and approached him. "Take it, then."

Maglor nodded tensely. "Put it in a cloth and hand it to me," he said.

"No," said Pippin, holding out his palm. "Take it, yourself, with your own fingers."

The elf's eyes went wide. "Do not mock my plight!" Maglor cried, stricken.

"But I'm not," Pippin said, filled with pity. "Take it, Maglor. Take what your father made."

Maglor dropped his sword. He stepped back, frightened by the small, bright figure offering the radiant jewel. "No," he said. "I cannot. No …"

He tried to pull away, but Pippin took his hand. Gently, firmly, he pressed the jewel into Maglor's grip.

Maglor gasped and closed his eyes.

Nothing happened.

Maglor opened his eyes. The Silmaril shone in his hand, nothing more. Speechless, he fell to his knees.

"See?" said Pippin cheerfully. "I told you. People change."

* * *

The light of the Sun returned to the sky. The Moon passed from totality and an orange dawn from the zenith appeared over the world. In the sky, the rent was still visible, but its winds had died greatly, and the shaking had stopped. In the eye of its luminescent mists shone glimpses of a faraway land.

"The True West," said Maglor.

Pippin nodded. "My cousin's there, or close to it."

"He must be great indeed," said Maglor. "As are you, halfling."

"Not like him," said Pippin. Then he smiled wistfully. "But I've done my best."

He looked again at the Silmaril the Elf held. "It really is beautiful," he said. "What are you going to do with it, now you've got it?"

Maglor gazed at it momentarily. He rose to his feet, took a few steps, and looked up into the dimming opening to the Uttermost West. Then, with a mighty throw, Maglor hurled the Silmaril up into the hole in the sky. It gave a mighty flash, and vanished.

Slowly, like a folding leaf at dusk, the rift came shut. In its place was a milky sky lit by the half-disk of the Sun.

Maglor looked down at Pippin's gaping face. "Did you have another fate in mind?"

Pippin only shook his head, still gaping at the healing sky. "That, was _great_."


	16. Hawk of Heaven

_Part XVI_

**Hawk of Heaven**

* * *

So it was. He had come to this place the long way about, and before he knew it, had become part of a legend.

When the rift in the sky closed, the shaking and tremors stopped, sparing the city of Nekhet from catastrophe. The Stairway, however, was not so fortunate. Pippin and Maglor climbed up through the rockslide that had been the south face of the structure to find Bangshar and Zeah leaning on each other. They continued past the wide-eyed stares of the onlookers who had there been gathered, Pippin hearing the soft cries of the Nekheti: _Harekht, Harekht, the Hawk of Heaven is come._

"What are they talking about?" he asked under his breath to Zeah. But Zeah was still weak, and shook her head.

"I'm sorry!" said Pippin. "What do you need?"

"I think she is only tired," Bangshar said. "Don't worry. I have her."

Pippin could see that. He was surprised and happy to see Bangshar alive, and little worse for wear, which was more than could be said of the moving statues he had fought. He smiled and nodded at his old shipmate, and was not aware that he had clenched his jaw until it began to hurt.

They went out into a sandy courtyard south of the Stairway a safe distance from the main structure. The groaning of stone and cracking of brick had accompanied them out of the chamber, and now they stood and beheld the collapse of the structure, its walls too steep and too damaged by the rift to continue to support itself. Whatever other mysteries Alatar had kept within his mechanism was now buried along with the dust of his physical form, the body of the cursed and redeemed Osyr, and the serpent Akek.

"All's well that ends well," Pippin said quietly, though he was certain not everything had ended yet. _Harekht, Harekht_ he could hear around him. The Nekheti certainly could fix their attention on a person when they wanted to.

It was there that Mery and Asouk, riding up from the city with Yses upon the Queen's chariot, found them, and it was there that once again Pippin was reunited with his most trusted friend in Far Harad.

"Razar," Asouk said warmly.

"You were right," Pippin replied. "We would see each other again."

"And so we have." Asouk examined him. "You are glowing."

"Am I?" Pippin asked. He hadn't realized it. The touch of a Silmaril was not easily doffed, it seemed. "Well," he said to Asouk, "you should have seen me earlier. I was shining," he added cheekily.

"Shining?"

Pippin told him what happened. Maglor and then Zeah, who had recovered some strength, expounded on the events. As they listened, Yses and Mery grew pale and then flushed and their eyes grew wide as orbs.

"So the Noonstar is … gone?" Yses asked.

"It was assumed into the heavens," Maglor said with a tone of finality. "If it will be found again, it will not be here."

Yses nodded. "So we have come to the end of Nekhet as it has always been," she said sadly. "Woe unto me to lose both husband and home all in one day …"

Mery came to support her. Asouk said, "Have no fear that we intend to remain. I came here not to conquer." Hoz said nothing.

Pippin, moved by the sorrow of the beautiful queen in her warrior's garb, went to her and knelt on one knee. "My lady," he said as a knight of Gondor should, "I pledge all my strength and ability to help you rebuild your city and your land anew. Every end is also the start of a new beginning." He added, "I'll stay as long as it takes."

Yses approached him, tall and stately despite the stains of war upon her white dress. She bent down and touched Pippin's shoulder. "You have already done more than I could have asked, Peregrin son of Paladin. Your deeds against Sehty and Seht himself have become a tale growing into legend swift as the river's flood. It is we who should thank you for your part in the deeds of this day."

"I only did what I thought I had to do," Pippin protested.

Yses smiled. Then she rose, and held out her right hand to Mery. Mery approached with a small golden rod, bent at one end, and tipped there with a small feather. Yses took it and crossed her bent arm across her chest, and then extended her arm and held the tip of the rod with the feather above Pippin's tousled curls of chestnut and gold.

"This is Peregrin, the Falcon of the West," she said solemnly, in a great voice. "Vanquisher of Seht, foe of Al-Atar, who touched the Star and shone with the light of the Sun and the Moon. May he ever be recalled by all who dwell in the Valley, through all the ages as long as the gods are honored. In the name of Harekht the Hawk of Heaven, I say this, Yses, Queen of Nekhet."

And from the Nekheti gathered came the acclamation, ringing in the clearing air of a coming evening: "The Falcon of the West!"

"_O Sihorunebi m'Hobengo!_" Asouk shouted, and the Bani nearby took up the shout.

Hoz and Zeah and the Erites said nothing, but bowed to Pippin.

Bangshar winked and did so too.

Pippin realized he was shaking. _Me? All for me?_ He began to smile, filled with pride.

"I shall make a song about this," Maglor said.

Suddenly Pippin found himself thinking of the Field of Cormallen. _Hail the Ringbearer_, he thought, seeing Frodo's pale, pensive face amid all the adulation. The haunted old-wise eyes like tumbled bits of sky. His pulse quickened, his temples throbbed, and he began to sweat from every pore of his skin.

He whistled for Swallow, who came like a sable bolt from wherever she had waited. With a smile and a stuttered "Excuse me, thank you all, I need to … see to … something," he climbed up onto the filly's back and was off like a thief in the night.

"Where is he going?" Mery wondered aloud.

Asouk sighed shortly. So did Zeah.

* * *

2.

* * *

"You cannot hide from them forever," Asouk advised him.

They were in the chambers provided for Pippin by Yses in the Queen's House. Pippin has asked for a small room in the smaller House rather than in the grand King's House that now stood empty. The Queen's House was more familiar, and much more like a home than a court. The room was similar to the one he had first woken up in, when he had been taken to Nekhet: painted walls, high carven bed, simple table with earthen vessels, and a pair of long, narrow windows, at one of which he now stood, peering out.

"They're still there," he sighed to Asouk, speaking about the small crowd of Nekheti and Bani who daily gathered in the court by his window, hoping for a glimpse of him. Sometimes one of the priests of Nekhet would lead them in chants to Harekht.

"It's just like what happened with my cousin Frodo after the War of the Ring," Pippin said. "Everywhere he went, it was _Hail Ringbearer_ this, _Our Savior_ that; he ended up shutting himself in his room writing his book."

"I would like to read your cousin's book."

"I'll have a copy made," Pippin offered offhandedly. He looked back out the window and winced. "I hear Maglor, that Elf? He's going about the city singing about what happened. All too flattering of me too. He's just making it worse." He sighed. "They don't really think I'm a god, do they?"

Asouk shrugged. "They saw their city come to the brink of destruction under the rule of a dark and evil force. They saw you defeat him. They already have a story of how this Harekht battled Seht for rule over the world. It has only been confirmed by what they saw with their own eyes."

"They did not see it with their own eyes," Pippin averred. "They heard it from someone, who heard it from someone, who heard it in turn from someone standing on the rubble of the Stairway not knowing what they were seeing." He shook his head. "I don't mind adulation, not at all," he said, stepping away from the window, "but _veneration_ is another thing entirely."

He went and joined Asouk at the table, where the remains of a small breakfast lay unconsumed. Pippin hopped up onto the table, picked up a crust of bread, and chewed it, swinging his legs absentmindedly as he used to do as a lad.

"Do you think the Queen and Mery are in love?" he asked.

"Love may have little to do with it," Asouk answered. Pippin offered him a piece of bread and he took it and chewed it carefully and swallowed before continuing. "Yses is now alone, and although she is a great woman, ruling queens seem as rare in the history of the Valley as they are anywhere else in Far Harad. Mery is the captain who remained loyal to her. If she wishes to reward him for that, so be it."

"I hear she plans on making him vizier," Pippin shared. "I hear the King's Guard isn't too happy about that."

"The battle between the two regiments was hard," Asouk said, "and wasteful. Good blood was spilled, and bad blood kept."

"What if she marries him? And makes him Phar?"

"It has been known to happen. There will be some strife yet in the Valley, I think. I hope not to have anything to do with it. Once the city is rebuilt, I shall lead my people hence, all who wish to return to the Plains."

Asouk's face was firm, even stern, and commanding. Pippin looking at him thought of the grave and intimidating pirate's mate he had met many months ago, and was filled with affection and admiration for his friend. He was always pleasantly surprised at the hidden greatness that could be revealed in the unlikeliest of individuals.

Asouk said, "I truly think there is affection between them."

"Who?"

"Yses and Mery."

"Oh, yes. Do you?"

"It isn't difficult to see, Razar. The captain is devoted to his mistress, that is clear as the sun. The Queen, for her part, responds to this devotion. It has been my experience …"

Pippin leaned back onto the table and clasped his hands together behind his head and looked up at Asouk. "What has been your experience, Asouk?" he asked in mock seriousness, earning a smile from his friend.

"My experience," said Asouk, swatting at Pippin as if he were a pest ("_Ow!_") "is that women value one thing most: the constant devotion and loyalty of a man. The man who gives his heart completely often wins a woman's heart in return."

He allowed Pippin to consider that for a moment. In a while they heard chanting begin under the window from the people gathered outside. Pippin groaned, covered his face, and turned away.

"Hiding yourself away only makes them more convinced that they are correct about you," Asouk advised. "Before long you'll find you have become a legend attached to this old myth."

From his position Pippin uttered another groan.

"And who knows," Asouk added further; "perhaps in a way they are right."

Pippin bolted upright. "Don't _you_ start!"

"It seems you were led here from before you began your journey," Asouk pointed out. "And in your company I have seen many wonders, great and small. If the people of the Valley say that the Hawk of Heaven came to deliver them from the darkness of Seht; if my people say that the Rainmaker came to deliver them from the Eye; and you, in your own way, did these things in fact; would we not have cause to think there is some fate that led you here, to accomplish these things? You have lived up to your name, _Razanur_, traveler in distant lands. Perhaps you were led here. Perhaps none of this could have come to pass without your presence."

"Perhaps the sun's gotten to you."

"Razar …"

Irritably Pippin nodded. "Yes, yes; when you put it that way, I suppose it looks like I was doomed to come here." He wriggled his furry toes. "And doomed to go whence …?" he added under his breath.

Then he darted a sly glance at Asouk. "I thought you didn't believe in any of this stuff. Divine intervention. Impossible occurrences."

Asouk gazed back at him for a while. Then he said, "Impossible things happen sometimes. I've seen them."

Recognizing his own words, Pippin blushed, and fell silent, and listened again to the hymns to Harekht.

* * *

Zeah walked down the corridor in the Queen's House leading to Pippin's room bearing a bowl of figs.

"Greetings, Zeah."

She glanced at Bangshar, who had appeared from a side alcove. "Good morning," she replied. "Were you waiting in ambush for me?"

"Only a fool would try to put one over on you," the Easterling replied.

"Put one over?"

"Trick you."

Zeah smiled. "Only one would dare try," she said, and increased her pace.

Bangshar kept up. "Is that breakfast?"

"Yes."

"That is a lot of fruit for such a slim young woman."

Zeah stopped and turned, her lips curled up at the corners. "Corsair, is there something you seek from me?"

Bangshar's face flushed. " … I'm sorry," he said. "I shall not bother you anymore." He bowed and left.

Zeah bit her lip. She exhaled shortly, and resumed her course.

She ran into Pippin.

"Pippin," she said, flustered.

"Hello, Zeah," Pippin greeted her. He looked at the food. "What's this?"

"Breakfast."

Pippin beamed. "Lovely! Actually I've already had breakfast, but it's very kind of you to send me second breakfast."

"Second breakfast?"

"All this time I never explained about second breakfast?" Pippin took the bowl in one hand and Zeah's arm in another and gently steered her back the way she came. "I'm on my way to see the Queen. Why don't you come with me?"

"My head aches."

"I've heard that before."

"Do not mind me," she said. "I shall come to you later."

"You will?" Pippin asked in hopeful surprise.

Zeah gave him a look. "To visit."

"Oh," said Pippin meekly. "Yes, please do." He frowned as he watched her go, then put it out of his mind and went back about his business.

Yses was in the Temple grounds, he was told, supervising the repairs of the old building scorched by fire during the battle. Pippin pulled his cloak close about him and did his best to remain unnoticed and unseen as he crossed the empty courtyards and pillared lanes that led from the Queen's House to the Temple grounds. But now he was seen. Nekheti chased after him asking for a blessing or a touch of his cloak. Pippin ran for his life until he could hide himself behind a carved stone and wait for the crowd to rush by before being able to continue on his way to the Temple.

The site was noisy with building work. Pippin found Yses with Mery, architects, and priests under a feathered canopy at one corner of the Temple Court. The Queen looked up as he jogged over and smiled and reached out for him.

"Razar," said Yses. "I am glad you are here. Come and see the great things we are creating."

Pippin allowed her to lead him to the canopy. A model for a larger Temple stood on the table, next to reed scrolls containing diagrams and images. He smiled at Mery and more uncertainly nodded at the architect and the priests, who were peering at him with probing eyes.

"Ma'am," he said, "I was hoping to speak with you."

"Let me show you what we are doing," Yses said. "Then we shall talk. You see, with the help of the Plainsmen and the fresh start we were given, we shall build a Temple to surpass the old one that burned. It shall be of brick and sheathed all in white limestone, shining in the sun like a new Star. A four-sided column tapering to a point shall stand there, where the old Altar was, and upon it shall be written the great events of recent days, especially your hand in them. How does that suit you?"

"That's actually, ah, what I wanted to speak with you about," Pippin said. He glanced at the others, and then asked, "May I speak with you in private, ma'am? For just a moment? I promise it won't take long."

Yses looked nonplussed, but nodded. "Certainly, Pippin. Captain, supervise," she added to Mery.

They strolled down to the river, Queen's Guards at a distance. "What may I do for you, Pippin?" asked Yses.

Pippin held his breath, and then said, "It's the people, Your Majesty, to be perfectly honest. The way they look at me."

"Has anyone been discourteous?" demanded Yses.

"No, no, not at all. It's not that. Quite the opposite, in fact." He paused, and then said, "The things you said about me, on the day of the battle, back at the Stairway. I don't mean to be a bother, and I am exceedingly grateful and gratified for all the favors you've showered on me—no hobbit would say no to comforts!" He laughed nervously. "But a hobbit would say 'wait a moment' when it comes to the kind of attention I've been getting."

"But Razar. They wish to honor you. You are a hero to three nations for defeating Seht."

Pippin shook his head. "That was just an enchanted statue." He stopped, and looked the Queen straight up in the eye. "I don't want to be treated as anything other than what I am: a hobbit and traveler, who did what he felt he had to do, and managed to make it out of that mess alive. Please, if you can, stop people from calling me Harekht. I'm just Pippin."

Yses listened and then shook her head fondly. "It both warms my heart, and perplexes my mind, that one so honored would be so uncomfortable with the praise that the people feel is his due. But let it be as you say. I shall decree that you shall no longer be addressed, admired, emulated, venerated or adored, in the bounds of the Valley. Will that be agreeable to you?"

Pippin smiled, embarrassed by her humor. "Yes," he said. "I am happy to be of service, milady. I don't mean to say not. I still hope to help you in whatever you need to do here, before I go."

"Ah," said Yses. "Yes. Do you plan to leave soon?"

"Soon enough," Pippin replied. "I expect Zeah will be wanting to go back to her people now she's almost well, and Bangshar will ride with me to Umbar and then east. I plan to take the long route back to the lands of the West, around the bay to the north of here."

"I have no knowledge of lands to the north, and the city of Umbar is but a rumor to me," said Yses. "But if that is your road then so be it."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Pippin said, bowing, thinking he was dismissed.

"But before you leave, there is a task I would ask you to do."

"What is your bidding, ma'am?" Pippin asked formally.

Yses explained.

* * *

3.

* * *

Zeah coughed as a mound of dust rose from the codexes she carried, removing them from their shelves blackened with age and bringing them down to the table where, surrounded by scrolls, ink, books and scribes, Pippin sat reading aloud.

"Here are the last of the records," she said.

"Stop!" Pippin said in Nekheti, one of the words he'd learned, and the scribes ceased their work, or went on to filling in some of their notes into fuller pictures and diagrams. Making sure they truly had all ceased, Pippin said to Zeah, "I can't believe I'm nearly done."

Zeah gazed at the piles of writings upon the long, low table. "You have been more dedicated to this task than I could ever have given you credit for, Pippin," she admitted in admiration. "I could not have found the patience to read aloud all the writings left behind by the men of the sea who founded this kingdom. You are quite a scholar."

Pippin shook his head. "I'm no scholar, unless scholarship is being able to read something aloud. Yses asked me if I could help transcribe the Númenórean records in Tengwar and Cirth into spoken Adunaic, so the scribes could translate it into Nekheti. I, of course, said yes without even thinking about it, because that's what I do."

"I have noticed."

"Have you. So here I've been. Reading harvest records, battle records, construction texts, chronologies, births and deaths, wars and treaties …" He groaned and rubbed his eyes. "Three weeks. Can you believe it? And we can't do this outside because the sunlight would destroy the old texts." He looked around the dim hall of records and sighed. "But it's important work, I know. And there are some wonderful stories, real and imagined, in here … someone has to make sure they're retold and remembered." He sighed. "What time is it?"

"Late afternoon."

"Teatime!" Pippin cried. "That tears it. You all—I'm going to have some tea," he said to the scribes.

The scribes frowned at him.

"I shall go hence and take a morsel to strengthen myself," Pippin said in Adunaic. "Do you also the same."

Pleased, the scribes praised his name, folded their tablets and rolled their scrolls, and filed out of the room.

Zeah rolled her eyes. "You are a kind and generous god."

"Aren't I, though." Pippin let out a clean breath and hopped off his stool. He stretched, yawned, and rubbed his belly. "Mm," he said. "Have tea with me?"

"It is coffee and cakes in the terrace," Zeah informed him. "I would be happy to join you … if you do not mind that Bangshar joins us."

"Bangshar?" Pippin repeated, following Zeah to the door and into the courtyard of the King's House. "Why is he joining us?"

"Because he is your friend, he is the Queen's guest," said Zeah, "and I asked him to." She became serious. "There is something I want to say to both of you."

Pippin stopped. He looked at Zeah with new understanding. "You like him," he said.

Zeah also stopped, and turned, and nodded. "I do, Pippin."

"I know he likes you," Pippin went on, feeling himself flush. "I didn't know you returned his feelings."

Zeah paused before replying. When she did, her eyes were fierce and her tone brittle. "I am not certain yet, but I think that may be. He is … kind, and does not try to stifle me. I like that. That is why I wished to spend some more time with him. To see what lies between us, if anything."

Zeah looked around. They were in a brightly lit path in the middle of the King's House courtyard. "This is not the place to speak about this. Come. Let us talk over a meal." She firmly squeezed Pippin's hand and without another word he followed her.

A small carpet was laid upon a terrace near the chambers Pippin kept in the Queen's House. Upon it were plates of small cakes, some fruit, and flagons of water, as well as a pot of fragrant coffee brewed from beans Zeah had produced from some Erite stores. Bangshar was there, waiting for them. He smiled and poured them cups, but noticed their expressions.

"Should I go?" he asked them, glancing from Zeah to Pippin.

It was Pippin who answered. "No," he said. "She wants to say something."

Bangshar sat back on a cushion, and then looked hopefully at Zeah.

Zeah sat down gracefully, and then began to unwind her veil and headscarf. Length after length of sheer black cloth folded into her hands until her hair, neatly bound back behind her, was clearly visible. Deftly she flung the folds back over her head and let them settle there, her face open to them both.

"I am a woman unsworn to any man, except the prophet of Er, my father," she began. "For many years, since I was forsworn by my husband, I have chosen my own companions, and I have made my own path in the world. I have been happy so. Happy enough."

Bangshar made to rise. "I really should go."

"Please." Zeah touched his arm. "Stay." The Easterling did as he was bid, flushing so red Pippin almost smiled.

"Thank you," said Zeah. She took her cup and sipped. "As I said, I thought I was a happy woman, and free. And I looked with scorn upon those girls of my acquaintance who were kept by husbands, and worn down by children, their world circumscribed by the pegs that held their husbands' tents. I was not them. I had a horse, and wide spaces, and I rode them all as they came to me."

She sighed, and seemed older than her twenty-some years. "Yet I rode them alone."

Zeah's glance fell on Pippin. "I thought I could go through life without needing to stop for more than a moment; fall for a passing traveler, and then move on.

"But you cannot do that all your life. There are distances that cannot be surmounted on a steed, and challenges that do not fall to swords. I dreamed of a man who would be worthy of me. A man who would not chain me, but bind himself to me, and be my mate in all things. A man who would stay."

Zeah rose, and looked long and openly at Bangshar, who had turned both white and hopeful, as if he had come upon a ship laden to overflowing with pearls. But she went to Pippin, whose red-gold head was bowed, and who was struggling to contain himself.

"Do you see, dear one?" she said to him, cupping a cheek and an ear in her palm. "This is what I learned from our time together. And we are much alike. Do you not think I have found wisdom, in what I have now said?"

Pippin looked into her face, and her beautiful eyes, and her resemblance to his wife, in manner and hopes and speech, was unmistakable.

He hugged her. She held him, feeling him cry. To her surprise, the hobbit began to laugh instead. Pippin pulled away and looked up at her, and his face was one bright shining smile.

He swiveled around and said to Bangshar, "So I guess you're not leaving with me?"

Bangshar could only stare at them, befuddled but not displeased.

* * *

When Pippin finished with the transcriptions and translations, after nearly five weeks of work, he presented the completed works to Yses and her court with all the scribes. "May this be a credit to the library of the City of the Hawk," he said formally, "that the lore and learning of the past be preserved into the age to come."

Afterward he joined Yses and Mery at a meal of celebration. "I have seen some of the papers," said Mery. "It is great work you have done for us, Peregrin. I dare say it is almost as great as what you did against Sehty."

"I was pleased to do it," Pippin said good-naturedly, then grew almost serious. "I admit at first I didn't know what I had gotten myself into," he told them, remembering. "I was never good with books or scholarship of any kind until more recent years, when I started to comb through the libraries of the Shire for lore about Númenor and Far Harad. There's precious little of it, and a lot of it like the old texts you showed me: brittle, or water-stained, or moldering, all sorts like that. I never knew what sort of treasures of knowledge and wisdom could be found in old books like that, until the Queen gave me the task. Even the dullest list of records had meaning, if I looked for it hard enough."

"Perhaps when you return to your home, you can do for your land what you have done for us," said Yses warmly. "Save old books and old scrolls, old wisdom, for the age to come."

"A library," said Mery.

Pippin smiled, not the ingenuous smile of his youth, but a deeper, wiser one, filled with the hope of satisfaction in a task that asked to be done well.

"I think that's a good idea," he said thoughtfully.

* * *

4.

* * *

So it came to pass, that the rebuilding of the Temple of Nekhet was completed by the rising of the last moon of the year that in the West was called the 10th of the Fourth Age of the world, or 1431, Shire reckoning. And the Temple was of brick sheathed in white limestone, and it shone like a trove of silver and pearl in the sunlight, bright as the Star that had gone.

Peregrin Took, traveler through distant lands, stood with Zeah of the Erites, and Bangshar of the East, and Asouk king of Ngiranimo chief of the Bani, and Maglor the Elf, who sang a song of purification; and they came to Yses Queen of Nekhet, to honor Osyr her husband, and send him into the Afterlife, at dawn.

And ere dawn came Yses raised a crooked stick, and held it to the lips of an image of the Phar wrought in gold; and so the Nekheti believed that the mouth of the body of the king was opened, and his spirit flew free, into the shadowed waters of the dead.

Then Yses the Queen declared, "Behold the Temple of Harekht!" as the hour of the rising of sun came, and there was light on the horizon.

The light reached across the desert and down a cleft in the eastern cliff, and illuminated the Temple by a pair of windows at both ends of its length; and the great images on its sides were revealed: a hawk, bearing the golden disk of the Sun upon its head, and the black and silver boat of the Moon in its talons; and a Star shone within its breast.

And Pippin saw it, and clapped a hand on his brow and groaned, making Asouk and Zeah giggle.

* * *

Pippin stood upon the black mud of the bank of the River where he had first set foot upon Nekheti soil, and let the warm breeze from the north waft his hair and cloak.

He was going home. He had done everything he had hoped to do, accomplished everything he had decided—and, considering he had hoped for little and decided nothing, also achieved much, much more. He was ready. Home, he had discovered, was not a place on a map but in the heart. No matter where he wandered, he would always find it there.

On the way back to the Shire from Minas Tirith, the hobbits and Gandalf has stopped by Rivendell, to see Bilbo again. Pippin had been fearful of what shape they'd find the old hobbit to be in, and when he saw him, he was saddened by what age had wrought on his childhood hero. But Bilbo had been happy to see them all again, especially Frodo, and Frodo certainly comforted Bilbo and cared for him while they lingered there.

When after a fortnight Frodo decided it was time to leave, Bilbo gathered them to his chambers to give them parting gifts. Pippin, ever eager, found himself surprised by melancholy as he watched Bilbo putter around, a grey and wrinkled hobbit as old as the books that surrounded him.

Bilbo had given gifts and advice to Frodo, and a bit of gold to Sam, for his "marriage", which made Pippin wonder and Merry smile. When their turn came Bilbo had nothing to give them but some advice.

Pippin felt a bit nervous, stepping forward, a tall young soldier-lad not yet of age, towering over the aged adventurer, wondering what he would say. But there was a twinkle in Bilbo's blue eyes, bright and young, as he spoke.

"Peregrin Took," said Bilbo, as if it were a title and not a name. "You are a journeyer now, and a Took indeed. Do not scorn hobbits who stay at home. They may not the will to set out from their little lives, or if they do, they may not have the chance, burdened by cares and responsibilities you do not know. That doesn't mean they have not wondered what the road is like around the corner, and hoped for someone to tell them. You were once like that. Now you know. So tell them."

And instead of a kiss, he placed his weathered hand on Pippin's forehead, as Merry and Sam and Frodo watched. "Bless you, Pip," said Bilbo, and Frodo nodded and approved.

Then Bilbo winked. "Don't get too big for your hat."

Now, halfway back from a journey that took him almost a world away, Peregrin Took closed his eyes and thought of Bilbo Baggins. "I've done it, cousin Bilbo," Pippin said to the sky. "I've been to the other end of the world. And now I think I'm ready to tell them."

* * *

The eastern cliffs across the Valley were reddening in the westering sun as the heat of the day gave way to the long calm twilight of the stars. Pippin walked Swallow along the sands and looked up to gaze at his friends who had come to see him off.

"I will never forget you," said Mery. "May that dagger you carry always recall to you the City of the Hawk."

Pippin nodded. "Goodbye, Captain."

"You are a hero we did not think to look for," said Yses. "Know that the song of the Falcon will always resound in the Valley, until the River flows no more."

Pippin bowed. "I am honored."

"Well," said Bangshar. "Goodbye, mate. When you get to Umbar, stop by the 16th pier. The ship will be docked there. Say hello to the captain for me."

"I will," Pippin said with a smile. "Live long and happy, mate. You've found your treasure and your home."

"I hope the same goes for you, soon," was the reply. Bangshar smiled, and then gave way to Zeah, letting go of her hand.

Zeah gazed down upon Pippin for a long time. Pippin looked back at her. Neither of them said anything. Then Zeah knelt and Pippin embraced her, his cheek pressed against the fabric of her veil.

"Make it right," she whispered fiercely.

"I will."

He came to the black-cloaked form of the Singer. Maglor smiled and held his hand, letting Pippin feel once again the hard, ancient, powerful flesh, and the old and faded scars. "You stepped out of legends," Pippin told him.

"You have stepped into them," Maglor replied. "I shall sing of you."

"And I of you," Pippin promised. They bowed, and parted.

Finally he stood before the tall, immense, dark form of Asouk, his face impassive as always, looking down on him like a giant would gaze upon a child.

Asouk held out a piece of carved ivory. "For your friend Samwise. A piece of oliphaunt's tooth, engraved with the Two Mothers and the thorn tree of the Plains."

Pippin gazed at it in happiness. "He'll love it," he said, tucking it into his vest pocket. "I wish I had a gift to give you."

"You have given me more than enough," Asouk calmly replied. He smiled. "Remember me to the captain should you find him."

"I certainly will."

"Well, then."

Pippin nodded. "Well." He looked down, his tears were so close, and then said, "Thank you, Asouk. For everything."

Asouk nodded. He said: "Razar." And he seized Pippin and lifted him up so that Pippin could throw his arms around the man's shoulders and embrace him there. The tears Pippin held back could be held back no longer.

Farewells complete, Pippin gazed at the people who stood before him. They were not all here; he hoped to see Hoz, at least for a moment, before going on the road to Umbar, and then, perhaps, in the City of the Corsairs, find that ship that he'd called home. But this was the most final of goodbyes, for all that it was first. He would likely not see these people all again, and likely not in this place, between the desert and the river and the valley and the sky.

"Well," he said. "It's been fun!"

They laughed at that.

The Sun slipped behind a dune and the stars blazed out upon the shield of the heavens. Pippin mounted Swallow and seized her reins. His laughter had ceased, but his smile lingered. Swallow was excited, almost skittish, as if she knew a run, a good long run, was ahead of her.

Pippin leaned close to her ear. "Remember those endless roads we'd try, girl?" he crooned. "Let's try and follow them home!" And he told her to run.

Swallow gave a neigh and a kick and then leapt forward into the west, Pippin holding onto her back, his hair and cloak blown back by the speed. Just as he left Pippin gave only one glance back, at a tall man standing against the sky, and a slight young woman whose veils rippled in the wind, both their hands raised in farewell.


	17. The Long Way Round

_Part XVII_

**The Long Way Round**

* * *

He rode into the west until the sands swallowed all trace of him, but he knew his way now, and he felt no fear.

He rode west a hundred leagues, following a path through the desert that was written in his memory, thinking of Zeah and the way to Gar bet-Eria they had taken, on the run from Sehty's soldiers. He came to the Mountain of Er and the springs of Zet Pallan shortly after sunrise on the second day.

The tent city was much dwindled, and the flocks of goats and sheep had moved on. Only the prophet's tribe remained there, these being the lands of their patrimony from ages past, when Pallando had welcomed the prophet of Er to the monolith. His coming was marked by the cry of a falcon, and he looked up and whistled, crying, "_Serak! Serak! Serak!_"

Serak, Hoz's falcon, swept down from its sentinel height to alight upon Pippin's arm. "Nice to see you again," said the hobbit. The bird _screed_ in reply, and then took off again, doubtless proceeding to its master to tell him Pippin had arrived.

Pippin went directly to the tent of the prophet, where the Medzhai guards bid him enter. He did not slough off his traveling gear, but proceeded through the vestibule to the central room, where he found Hoz seated on a cushion by the prophet's empty chair.

The young general rose and went to him, clasping his hands in greeting. "My sister stays behind," Hoz said.

Pippin nodded. "For a while. She and my friend Bangshar are getting better acquainted."

"I see." Hoz looked kindly at Pippin. "How lies your heart regarding this?"

"It beats lightly," Pippin replied, "which is a most pleasant surprise."

He sat down and over water and fruit told of the events of the past five weeks, much of which Hoz already apparently knew. The Erites kept spies upon the Valley, Pippin guessed, knowing how old the rivalry was between the two; he had been told Hoz had ridden away after the battle to avoid encouraging the anger of the common people against an occupying army, no matter how well-intentioned. And some Erites were far from well-intentioned.

He also mentioned something of Zeah's words to him and Bangshar, which Hoz did not know about. The young man listened attentively, stroking his short, neat beard.

"I have often wondered how and when my sister would find her peace," Hoz mused to Pippin. "I hope this time she has done it."

"I think they understand each other, as she understood me," Pippin said soberly, and told Hoz of Bangshar's story. Hoz looked moved, and at the end said, "I feel I understand him, as well. So let it be. May Er's will be done."

They emerged into the heat of the day. "I'd rather not stay long," Pippin said. "I'd like to get back on the road by nightfall. As soon as you point it out to me, of course."

"Of course," said Hoz. "I shall have a copy of the map and the path to Umbar made for you. Until nightfall, rest and take your ease. Visit the springs, perhaps."

"Perhaps I will," said Pippin.

* * *

Pippin did go to the springs after a noontime nap; and was surprised for a moment to see a bearded man in a indigo robe sitting on a rock nearby, a weathered staff in his hands. But it was no wizard from across the sea; only Zedek.

"Well met again, traveler," said the prophet of Er.

"Good afternoon, Holiness," Pippin acknowledged. "May I ask what you're doing?"

Zedek gestured. "Sitting. Watching the water. Listening to the wind. Praying. Dost thou know how to pray, traveler?"

"I have not been taught formally, sir," said Pippin, "but I believe I've learned from experience."

Zedek smiled. "Then sit with me, if thou wish; let us pray together."

Pippin nodded and hopped up onto a rock next to the prophet. "What shall we pray for?"

"I pray that my people always find water, that our oases never run dry, that our palms bear good fruit in season, and that we have peace."

"But doesn't Er give you these things anyway?"

"Many of them. Yet I find it is polite to ask."

They sat together for a while, watching the quiet world in the soft murmurings of the breeze. Pippin held still, all but vanishing from notice, which Zedek himself also seemed capable of doing. They held so still that shy creatures of the oasis began to appear, poking snouts and whiskers and tails and small bright eyes out of the cracks and crevices of the rocks. Here a jumping desert mouse. There a bat-eared fox. A lizard, licking its eyes. Up and beyond, a caracal. Pippin watched quietly, and the mouse became so brave it hopped past Pippin to the bubbling spring and drank.

"I am afraid of facing my father should I return to my home," said Pippin.

"Why is this so?" asked Zedek.

"I fear I've been far from what he's wanted as a son."

"Many sons feel so. My own has confessed as much to me, as he is a warrior, though he be destined to put down the sword and take up the staff of prophecy." Zedek smoothed his robe upon his knees with his dry and ropy hands. "Perhaps I should let him seek his way by his sword, for his gifts are great and true; and pass my office to my daughter. Would that not cause a wondrous stir?" The prophet smiled, and turned his eyes calmly upon Pippin. "I can not say to thee, fear not, your father Paladin has not minded thy absence," he said. "For he has. It will take a father hard beyond care, to care not for any son of his heart. But, my friend, know this. If thy father hath ever loved thee, he will remember it, upon the first sight of the shadow of thy return, upon the horizon of his sight."

"I hope you're right," Pippin sighed. "Maybe I should pray about that?"

"Maybe," said the prophet.

* * *

Come nightfall Swallow was saddled, fed, and refreshed, with fresh packs of supplies for the journey. She was fidgety again, eager to be gone, to run through the desert as she loved. Pippin chuckled and stroked her mane and told her just a moment.

Hoz and Zedek came to him together. They bowed, and Pippin bowed too.

"Here is the map of the road to Umbar from the Mountain of Er," said Hoz, handing a folded parchment to Pippin. "It is a journey that can be made easily in twelve days, or in six at haste; or forever without hope, for one who has not our maps. Watch for our secret oases. You have been given additional skins and bottles to conserve.

"The east wind is harsh. We have given you a headscarf and face-covering for your use. Make sure you use it.

"Most importantly, when you are within sight of Umbar's minarets, burn the map. We do not wish many more strangers to find their way to our sacred lands, unless they be led there by chance, the mercy of Er."

Pippin accepted the map and the advice and tucked it into the bag he wore slung over his shoulder. "I will remember. Thank you, Hoz."

They embraced. "Godspeed, my friend," said Hoz ben Zedek. "If we are never to meet again, may the wind fall fondly upon your path."

"Goodbye, Hoz," said Pippin. "It has been an honor, and a privilege."

Zedek spoke. "I have little else to say but this," he said, and raised his hands and staff over Pippin, speaking in words of Erayyim Pippin didn't know:

_"May the Lord bless thee and keep thee. May he maketh his face to shine upon thee, and give thee peace. Should thou travel through dry valleys veiled by death, fear no evil; for he is with thee; his rod and his staff shall comfort thee."_

They watched smiling as he mounted and walked Swallow around. Then he smiled, waved, and rode on. His course was marked by the seven stars curving over the north: the Sickle of the Valar, memorial of the overthrow of the dark.

* * *

2.

* * *

Umbar. The largest and oldest city upon the face of the earth held nearly a million souls within its city walls. Temples to gods and demons vied with guildhouses and palaces of the wealthy in attempting to attain the sky, while upon the streets, beggars in the thousands of every age and none struggled stubbornly for life. Above them all were the seven Towers, high and cruel, red, grey, white, rose, silver and gold, all crowned with a pointed black dome. Red pennants flew over the city, emblazoned with the sigil of the city: a new moon engulfing a seven-pointed star.

Pippin was awed by the size of the great city, but did not show it, and covered his face and pulled his cloak and hood low about him. He stopped outside the city to destroy the map to the Mountain. It took a moment for him to realize he was standing by the ruins of the great Beacon of Umbar, raised by the Númenóreans to commemorate the defeat of Sauron thousands of years ago. Now it lay in ruins, half-buried by the ground, and words and symbols upon the hundreds were graved into its stones. Seized by an impulse, Pippin pulled out his Nekheti dagger and carved his own message into the stone. It read:

_Frodo Lives!  
P.T. SR 1432_

It was not long before Pippin was waylaid by robbers, a gang of six ruffians. Pippin killed three, but the others got away with a sack full of the rich gifts given him by Yses and Hoz. Cursing, he spurred Swallow forward around the city towards the docks. At least Asouk's gift for Sam was still with him, in his vest pocket.

The port of Umbar was a bay as large as the city itself, with a hundred numbered piers reaching into the waters thickly strewn with watercraft of every size and purpose. Rising over them like the Towers above the houses of the city were the Corsair ships, far fewer than in their heyday, reduced in power and scope by the returning might of Gondor, but still sleek and beautiful and deadly, their lateen-rigged sails spiked into the cloudy blue sky.

Pippin rode to the first of the piers, which was numbered 100. He traveled on, through longshoremen hauling goods, laborers bearing packages, travelers securing transportation, merchants hawking tawdry keepsakes, red-garbed Haradrim soldiers keeping watch—though it seemed thievery and murder were as well-regulated as any other trade. Pippin kept one hand on the reins and another on his swordhilt. More than a few times he cast his cloak aside and flashed Trollsbane's silvery steel.

He came to Pier 16 and stopped. At the end of the long pier he saw it, long and low and sleek as ever, the _Sword_.

At the other end of the pier he saw what looked like a tavern, with horses tethered nearby. Men went into and out of the sooty door, emerging apparently quite drunk. A waft of pipeweed smoke came from the open windows, and Pippin could smell frying fish and taters.

Ship or food? Pippin's choice was easy. Soon he was seated at his own table in the Exalted Garden Of A Thousand Larks, or so the dirty little dive was called, having a passable though spiced and peppered version of fish-and-chips, and rather fine ale, which indeed came in pints.

He asked the barkeep, a surly, swarthy gentleman with a tiny cylindrical cap on his large head, if the captain of the _Sword_ was a customer.

"What is it to you, halfling?"

"He's an old friend," Pippin responded.

The barkeep glanced at Trollsbane's tell-tale pommel and worn black leather grip.

"I'll let him know when he comes in. Usually at the ninth hour," which meant sundown.

Pippin passed along a single gold coin. "I'll be much obliged if I could have this table till then. And I hope no one bothers me. Or my horse." He smiled. "Not that I'm worried about her, mind you; but she can be awfully mean to strangers."

Shortly thereafter there came a sharp, offended snort and the wail of a man whose foot had been stomped by a sharp hoof. Pippin smiled and had another pint.

That evening sure enough a shadow darkened the door of the tavern and, wearing a black coat and a jaunty black hat over his long black hair, in stepped the man Pippin had been waiting for.

Instead of rising, Pippin assumed a waiting, watchful position, leaning back against the back of the bench with his legs stretched out in front of him, cloaked, hooded, and smoking his pipe, his face in shadow. He watched as Neimor sat down at the bar, ordered a drink, and was told of his presence by the barkeep.

Neimor turned. He looked right at Pippin. Pippin's face was hidden, but not his feet, leathery soles and curly chestnut fur.

Pippin threw back his hood dramatically. "Neimor."

Neimor's lean, handsome face was frozen for a moment between fear and joy. Then it shifted into its customary sardonic set.

"Ah," said Neimor. "It's you, Peregrin." He leaned back against the bar. "Where _have_ you been."

* * *

They toasted Asouk. They toasted Bangshar. Neimor toasted Pippin when he heard about Zeah. The ale was replaced by sweet, heady wine, that flowed until even Pippin felt quite drunk.

Neimor seemed unaffected. When Pippin peevishly remarked on that, Neimor replied, "It takes more than wine to inebriate me these days, Pippin."

"What does ineb—_inebite_—get you soused these days?" Pippin questioned.

"Ah," said Neimor. "I am glad you asked."

He pulled out from his surcoat a folded map and laid it out on the table before them. "Ooh," Pippin breathed, gazing down at it. "What's this supposed to be?"

"Read it," Neimor said encouragingly.

Pippin was disoriented, but then he found the compass drawn on the map, and once he knew where West was he could find his way. "Here's the Shire," he said, "and the Blue Mountains, and the Firth of Lune—doesn't this part of Eriador look like a big jolly giant laughing at the sea?"

"Certainly. What is across the sea?"

Pippin looked. "Steady on," he said, squinting. "This isn't the Blessed Land."

Neimor laid his hand flat on the map with a sharp knock. His grey eyes gleamed. "These are the _new_ lands, my friend. The new lands beyond the bent seas. I have obtained this map from a passenger on a ship we recently … hosted."

"You didn't kill them all again, did you?"

"No, no, no," said Neimor dismissively, "I am getting out of that line of work. This is my new course."

Pippin stared at the map again. "You're going to … _New-found Land_?" He looked at the picture under the island. "Ooh, salmon."

"Forget the salmon, Pippin. Exploration. Exploration!" Neimor kicked back in his chair, a gentleness on his smirk. "I shall take my crew and explore the seas of the world. I may even circumnavigate the globe. Imagine the adventure. Imagine the sights to be seen, the lands to be visited, the treasures to be taken …"

Pippin smiled knowingly and raised a teetering glass of wine. "Aha. Treasure. I should have known."

"Well, a pard does not shirk his spots," Neimor pointed out. "But this, this is my first venture. To cross the Sea to this western shore and chart it. Then … who knows?"

Neimor leaned back. For a time he gazed at Pippin. Then he said, "It is you who inspired me to do this, Peregrin. I remember the long days you spent at the bow of the _Sword_, on our flight into the midst of Belegaer, eager to see the horizon that seemed changeless and yet to your eyes were full of mystery and promise. I saw you and thought often to myself, 'Look at him. A hobbit of the Shire, born with earth between his toes and the simple joys of his kind. If he can dare a voyage beyond his imagination, why not I?' This is what I asked myself. And even as we were welcomed home to Umbar—you have heard the story?"

"Yes. By the by, you're under arrest."

"You'll never take me alive. As I was saying, even as we were feasted and honored and the bounties on our heads forgiven—for the most part—I was already looking beyond the pirate life. I did not leave Eriador to grow fat on the leavings of listless lords in their towers. The sea spreads its arms around all this earth, the middle and the edges. I have a fine ship and a fine crew of like-minded sailors—"

"So why not explore."

"Why not explore." Neimor leaned close and asked Pippin, "Why not come with me?"

* * *

Pippin spent the night in his old quarters on the _Sword_, Swallow tethered under watchful guard on the deck. He was very drunk when he finally retired, and Neimor carried him up the gangplank and through the deck into the captain's cabin and the library-closet. The slow rise and fall of the ship to the movement of the sheltered bay rocked Pippin as he slept and gave rise to a dream.

In the dream he was at Neimor's side, sailing through a sea that was clear all the way to the bottom, through which swum merfolk. They were far to the west of the sun, sailing through an ocean few had yet crossed, and before them was an island green and golden rising like a vision from the indigo sea. The wind filled their sails, the sky was high and clear, and the tang of the sea was rich in Pippin's nostrils.

Then he heard the call of an albatross, and he looked up to spy it—and saw a hobbit-lad of ten years, with dark hair and green eyes, wandering lonely through the old, shabby hole of the North-tooks of Long Cleeve, glancing longingly and questioningly at the road, wondering at each solitary traveler who happened to come upon it. The boy would look with hope at the face of the traveler, only to lose hope as yet again they passed him by.

"Faramir, Faramir!" called a voice from the door of the smial.

"Just a little while longer," the hobbit-lad replied.

His mother appeared. She was changed by the years, aged more than she should have. Cold had seeped into her face and driven the beauty from her cheeks. She was every opportunity lost, every hope squelched, every doubt nourished, a puzzle pieced of a lifetime of missed chances. She stood in her plain white dress upon the moors of the Northfarthing, next to her son.

"I hate him," said the boy, who could not weep.

"If he should return," said Diamond, "think better of him, Faramir."

* * *

Neimor looked up from his morning meal as Pippin emerged from the library-closet.

"I have to go," said Pippin.

"Break fast with me," Neimor replied.

Pippin shook his head. "No, thank you, I'm not hungry." He picked up a large slice of bread and dabbed it with flavored oil and ate it in five bites.

"You have considered my offer?" Neimor asked gently.

"Believe me, I considered it," Pippin told him, "and I'm greatly tempted. But I have to go home. There is a lady to whom I must make a lifetime of amends, Neimor. And there's a child—my son. My son Faramir. A lad with a name like that deserves better from his father."

Neimor nodded. "Indeed."

Pippin took note of the tone in the captain's voice. "You know, don't you?" he said.

"I knew of Denethor son of Ecthelion. And I knew of his sons. It was not difficult to see the trouble that lay above that house. Tragedy, it was. I was pleasantly surprised to find Faramir son of Denethor a wise, just, and well-humored man, when he questioned me."

Pippin thought of that meeting, the two men, so much alike in his mind, Men of the West the both of them. "Did he question you in any particular manner?"

"Oh, yes," said Neimor. "And I let him have what he wished to know—enough for me to disguise my escape."

"Knave," said Pippin.

Neimor tipped an imaginary cap. "At your service."

The light of the morning spread over Cape Grief and lit the waters with flecks of pearl. The squawks of the gulls echoed through the wharves as the morning fishers and ferryboats began to ply the surface of the great haven. On the deck, the first watch was beginning to emerge. Pippin heard the strong, confident orders of the new first mate: Davy.

"It would have been a grand adventure," said Neimor.

"See about me in ten years or so," Pippin replied. "I'll be fifty-one … a likely age for another adventure."

"I do not doubt it," said Neimor with a laugh. "You, Peregrin Took, shall never be too old for adventure."

* * *

Davy helped get Swallow ready. "I think she actually likes you," Pippin remarked, astounded at his temperamental steed's quiet manners around the tall Gondorin youth. Young man, rather; Davy, who had filled out and lost an eye in some recent fight, was youth no longer.

"I wish we could sail you back to Gondor," said Davy, his missing eye covered by a dashing black band.

"Well, you sunk a ship of the line," Pippin replied. "I really should arrest you all."

"Say we overpowered you," Neimor said, coming down the gangplank to see him off. "It is within the realm of possibility."

"Just barely," Pippin noted, with a wink.

"We could sail you right back up the Greyflood to the heart of Eriador," Neimor suggested gamely. "Or up the Firth of Lune until you are a mere three days' ride from the Shire."

"I'm sure you'd like to," said Pippin. "But I'm taking the long way round."

"Yes," said Neimor, nodding. "I don't suppose there is anything left in the world that can daunt you."

"There's my father and my wife," said Pippin. "And both are waiting for me."

"Which is why you're taking the long way around," Davy guessed.

At Pippin's blush, Neimor threw back his head and laughed. "Ah, Pippin," he said. "Here." He gave Pippin a bound book. "A guide to Near Harad. So you will have an idea of where to stay and what not to do on your way back."

"Thank you," said Pippin, already planning to add the volume to his planned library in Great Smials.

"And let me tell you one last thing," said Neimor. "I spoke of you to Faramir when he and … met. He was greatly pleased to hear of your doings and our adventures. I told him you were thrown overboard in the storm; but I also made clear that it did not cross my mind to think that you had perished. I trusted Asouk, and I trusted you. And I was right. Faramir of Ithilien saw this in my mind, I am sure, and by now, perhaps he has told all who love you. Keep this in mind, on your road home."

He stepped back and grinned at Pippin. "So. Be off with you, then! And you can say you crossed paths with true Corsairs upon the sea—and lived to tell the tale."

"You can wager I will."

* * *

3.

* * *

So he rode on, and on, out of Umbar and into the petty kingdoms of the Haradrim, through days of heat and nights of fog, windy winter storms of sheeting rain and blinding white noons with the heat rising off the scrublands, meeting moments of adventure and long moments of repose when he simply sat on Swallow's saddle and beheld the passing lands. He joined up with a caravan a week out of Umbar, and fought with them against bandits who ambushed them as they crossed a lawless stretch between two enemy states. The brigands were caught unawares by the halfling with the long sword swung in reckless precision; they fled amidst arrow-shots from the guards of the caravan. They feasted that night and Pippin held the seat of honor.

Pippin parted from the caravan at a place called Jerico, a new settlement behind a half-built wall. He didn't linger there, his path taking him north up the old road that came to the Crossroads and continued until it met the dead maw of the Black Gate. The road took many days of riding, sometimes with company, oftentimes alone. Pippin would get into more scrapes as was his wont, and managed to get out of them with pluck and luck and a little daring. Neimor was right; nothing could daunt him now.

One afternoon, traveling along a dusty stretch of the road that passed through no place in particular, Pippin looked up at the sky, and saw nothing but its clear, deep, endless blue, that began to fade ineluctably from the trueness of its noon, through violet, and purple, and azure and gentian, into the flame-sparred spokes and orange bankheads of the descending sun. Memories of other moments such as that came to his mind. He recalled a night of feasting and dancing among the Erites, with Zeah and the other women dancing with their veils to music called from single-stringed viols. He recalled the blaze of a sunset at sea from the maintop of the _Sword_ on her journey to Meneltarma. He recalled dusk on the Plains of the Sun, with the soughing of the lions, and the calls of the trooper monkeys, the trills of the nightingales and flycatchers, and Asouk, singing low and soft, like the songs of the oliphaunts rumbling through the dark earth. He recalled the light of the Noonstar upon the horizon of the kings. The flames of the Secret Fire. He recalled the hills of Evendim seen from the crest of a heathered down above Long Cleeve.

He bent down and touched his chin to the black mane of his steed and touched his ankles to her flanks, and from her canter Swallow broke into a gallop, and north they went, the _Valacirca_ before them, Elbereth's true north guiding them back: the horse and the rider, racing the twilight line between daytime and night, upon the endless road. And somewhere along that line Pippin released the reins and threw his arms out and his head back and shut his eyes tight and begged the wind to speed its rush over his skin, letting the horse beneath him run her heart if she wished high into the turning stars.

* * *

It was March when he saw the dark mountains of the southern border of Mordor ahead of him. He turned west. He crossed the Poros a week later, and passed into the realm of Gondor. He rode through Ithilien with its meadows and glades fragrant with herbs and the first shooting flowers; past Emyn Arnen where a new town was being carved into the hills; and crossed the Bridge of Stars into the Pelennor on New Year's Day. He came to Minas Tirith upon sunrise, with the city blushing in the morning light over the Ephel Duath.

He rode up to the Great Gate, which lay open though guarded. Banners hung from the parapets of the wall, and a fragrance, of blooming spring and rich foods cooking in a hundred thousand hearths, lay over all the city.

"Happy New Year!" he said, hailing the gate watch. "Is the King in residence?"

"Indeed he is," was the reply.

That was all he needed to know. Instead of finding a room and preparing himself for a visit the next day, he thought to head directly to the Citadel. Urging Swallow on, he came to the broad boulevard and began to climb.

His passage was accompanied with interest. Citizens peered out of windows, children followed him in the streets, as he rode up each level. "_Ernil i Pheriannath!_" he heard more than once, Minas Tirith letting him know it recognized him, and remembered him still.

He rode up to the sixth level, and past the guards, announcing himself and riding on through despite their protests. He dove into the darkness of the gate to the embrasure; and emerged into the light of a bright morning upon the courtyard of the Citadel.

He dismounted and went past the Tree and its fountain to the Hall of the King where at last soldiers barred his way.

"I am Peregrin Took of the Fellowship of the Ring," said Pippin. "I wish to see the King."

"I know you, my lord," said one of the guards, and Pippin realized it was Bergil. "But we must announce you formally before we let you pass. Swear you that you shall not raise sword nor weapon in the presence of the King?"

"Unless the King himself command it," Pippin responded correctly. "Hurry up, Bergil, do you know how long I've been gone?"

"A year," said Bergil. "You've lost the vambraces."

"I was shipwrecked. It's a long story."

"You must tell it to me when you can," said Bergil, who opened the door and announced, "His lordship, Peregrin Took of the Fellowship of the Ring!"

Pippin stepped into the hall and heard the gasp that met him—but it could not be louder than his own.

They were all there. All of them, or as many as he could hope for. Legolas. Gimli. Faramir. Eowyn. The Queen, Arwen shining upon her chair. And upon his winged throne—

"Strider!" Pippin cried, forgetting his place.

But the King Elessar did not stand on protocol for his friends. "Pippin!" Aragorn exclaimed, his strong voice ringing through the Hall. "Welcome back!"

Pippin grinned, and started forward, marching smartly as a traveler returning with many tales. But then another voice rang out, and at once caught his heart.

"Pippin!"

Hearing that, Pippin came to a stop, and then ran headlong and heedless towards that voice, all the way back into the arms and embrace he had known all his life.

"Merry, Merry, Merry!" he said, coming to rest, his nose pressed against his cousin's collar.

"Pippin …" said Merry, clutching at him like a long-lost treasure. "You're back. Oh, bless you, my dear, you're back."

"I am back, Merry, and I promise I won't go away again. At least, not for a good long while," Pippin added.

He stood back as Merry pushed him into place and regarded him appraisingly.

"You're too thin," said Merry decisively. "We'll have to change that. You're dark, too."

"It was very sunny where I went," Pippin replied. "I want to tell you—" But before he could do so, he saw who else stood among the visitors to the court of the King.

She stepped forward, her pale hair glittering, her pale face glowing, in a white dress of best Shire satin and lace, and a touch of color on her cheeks. She stepped forward, into the light of the morning, and Peregrin felt he would break.

"Diamond?" he breathed in happy disbelief.

She nodded. "Peregrin."

Pippin was at a loss. He had planned weeks, months yet, before he had to face her. But she was here.

"But—how—" he stammered. "What are you doing here, Di?"

She inclined her head at him, as if he had asked her what time it was when he had a timepiece right in front of him. "Silly hobbit," said Diamond. "I came to find you."

* * *

4.

* * *

They stayed in Minas Tirith until the end of April. Pippin took Diamond everywhere she was willing to go. She had never gone outside the Shire before, and was still greatly frightened by all the strange sights and peoples; but he was with her, and was patient, and was finally rewarded with the look of delight in her eyes, as he took her around the city and the countryside.

He took her to a lane where men crafted goblets and vessels and sculptures and crystals from hot blown glass. He took her to a musicale in a large tavern, with Merry and Gimli and Faramir and Eowyn, and joined the musicians on the stage, singing for her, which she enjoyed greatly. He took her with Faramir and Eowyn to Ithilien, where she loved the flowers and the sweet-smelling herbs, saying it was like a lovely foreign version of the Northfarthing moors in summer.

They fell in love; or, rather, they found that they could love each other, be happy with each other's company; though they never often agreed and could trade such barbs as to make Merry blush. But Pippin went to Diamond's room at night, and she welcomed him there.

The first night he told her of Zeah, and confessed all he had felt about her. And Diamond had asked simply, "Do you love her still?"

"Yes," Pippin replied honestly. "But not like you. I want you."

She nodded, and he left her.

In the night she came to him.

"I like being wanted," she confessed.

"So do I, my lady," Pippin replied, risking to touch her. "Do you want me still?"

"I do," said Diamond.

Wherever they went, if they could, they took Faramir with them, Pippin now begrudging every moment he had spent away from the boy. Faramir was nearly two now and beginning to talk. When Diamond first showed him to Pippin, Farrie had chirped, "Pip! Pip! Pip!" which made Pippin crow with pride.

"He says that all the time," Merry observed. "It's apparently his catch-all."

"He knows his dad," Pippin retorted, bouncing the boy on his knee. "Don't you, young master? Yes you do! Yes you do!"

"Pip!" Farrie agreed.

Pippin told him stories. "Really, Peregrin," said Diamond, "he's not that smart yet. He doesn't understand half the things you're telling him." She paused. "_I_ don't understand half the things you're telling him."

"Oh, let me be, Di, he'll figure it out sooner or later," Pippin replied.

He told stories of the Stairway and the Star and the Plains and the Two Mothers. He told of the adventures of Neimor and the ways of the Erites. Only two things he kept from them: the location of Gar bet-Eria, and the vision, or visitation, of Frodo.

"You must write this down," said Arwen, weeping at the story of Maglor, who had been kind to her father when Elrond was a child.

"I'm not Frodo," Pippin said. "But I'll think about it."

"Please do," said Arwen.

* * *

In the middle of April, 1432, a letter came from Estella for Merry. It was bad news: Saradoc had been stricken ill and was now bedridden. It was best if Merry proceed back.

"I'll leave at once," said Merry.

Pippin told him, "We'll come with you."

They made their preparations. Peregrin asked if Faramir was up to the journey on horseback. Diamond said, "He's your son if he's anyone's. Barely more than a year old and he was laughing all the way to Gondor. Can you believe it?"

"I can believe it," said Pippin.

The King and Queen saw them off, as did Legolas and Gimli, and Faramir and Eowyn.

"Stop by Edoras and see my brother," said Eowyn. "He will want to know about your father."

Merry nodded. "I will."

"Ride swift, little brother," she said to him, hugging him. "Don't leave him," she added to Pippin.

"I won't," Pippin replied. Later he remembered he forgot to thank her one last time for reforging his sword.

They traveled light and swift, unremarked and unmolested through the long leagues of the west road and up the Greenway, coming to the Shire in the first days of summer. They stayed where they could, and camped where they wished. The weather was mostly clear and pleasant, and Faramir thrived.

At Sarn Ford they halted.

"I'm headed right to Buckland," said Merry.

"Do you want me to come with you?" asked Pippin.

"You go see your own father first," said Merry. "Did you even write to him from Minas Tirith?"

"I did," said Pippin. "But—"

"Go to him," Merry said firmly. Then, in a moment of uncertainty, he added, "Then come visit. With Farrie?"

"I will if Diamond thinks so," Pippin said.

"We will," Diamond decided.

"Then I'll see you soon," said Merry, and galloped off, leaving Pippin seated with Diamond cradling Faramir upon Swallow at the bridge of Sarn Ford facing north towards the Green Hills.

"I'm terrified," said Pippin.

Diamond kissed him. "Just don't think about it."

"I don't! Wait, what?"

She only rolled her eyes, like Zeah.

Pippin took a deep breath. "All right, my girl," he said to Swallow. "Just follow my lead."

On the way back Pippin ran over many possibilities of explanation in his head, thinking about what he would say to Paladin, or if he would say anything at all. He was wearing a nice shirt and breeches, but his Medzhai vest and his Elven cloak, with his Nekheti dagger and his reforged sword and the lion's tooth hanging from its cord around his neck. He could imagine what his father would say when he saw him like this.

_Well, at least I've got his grandchild. And the lad's mother, which is more than I expected._

He finally decided what he would say. _Father, I've been a bad son and and a good-for-nothing heir, and I deserve whatever you decide to do with me. I ask only that my son be Thain's Heir, and that I be able to see him from time to time._

He finished composing this as Swallow rounded the curve of the Tuckborough road and the Great Smials came into view, its windows shining like the facets of a jewel.

"Oh, my," said Diamond.

Pippin looked up. A hobbit was hurrying to meet them. Pippin recognized him in a flash. It was Paladin.

"Go on, you fool!" urged Diamond. "Save him the trouble of running!"

Pippin didn't need to be told twice. He leapt off his horse and dashed towards the Smials, their windows shining in the sun, and the grey-curled hobbit who was coming to him and met him halfway in an immense, crunching embrace.

"Dad," said Pippin. "_Dad …_"

"My lad," said Paladin, pressing his face into Pippin's chestnut curls. "My wanderer. My Pippin is back."

"Oh, Dad," Pippin said through tears and laughter, "I'm home." He looked around. "I'm home."

**THE END**


End file.
